


fair fortune

by atweird



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Time Travel, Time Turner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atweird/pseuds/atweird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it begins with the end. –- [thief of time redux, timeturner, marauder's era, sbhg, hermione granger & sirius black]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> author's notes:
> 
> Hello to my old readers. You've stayed by me all these long years. How does one express enough gratitude for that?
> 
> I can't, so I hope this is enough: I cherish you.
> 
> Hello to my new readers. I hope you come back soon.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr if you've got one.
> 
> [ eltaninrose ] beta'd this. Thanks for taking the time to do that, E.
> 
> If you reach the end of this chapter, please review.

* * *

  
**fair fortune**  
by  
frwllfrnknstn

* * *

"It kills me sometimes, how people die."- Markus Zusak

* * *

It begins with the end.

* * *

"Unspeakable Number One," the Minister of Magic says. "Congratulations."

Number One steps forward, hair a burnt orange, eyes a dark blue. There is no one behind her, no family in the crowd as she accepts her award. There is no crowd, no one in the room save for Head Auror Harry Potter and the Minister of Magic. There is no award, either. No medal announcing the promotion of title in her rank. The _highest_ title in her rank.

The brightest witch of her age, they say.

Just like her mother.

* * *

There is a warm light within her office, a flame flickering as it descends dangerously near the pool of molten wax below it. Littering her office are dusty tomes and yellowing scrolls in various stages of age and wear. Runes and forgotten languages are swirled and scratched across them, a fading black. On her floor is a stack of unopened letters. The pile almost reaches the height of her desk. It is an unusual amount for an uneventful day, but she has not touched them. Number One's attention is on the leather tome, half the size of her desk, open in front of her. Bound are frayed old parchment papers written on in what looks suspiciously like blood. A quill hovers and twirls over a brand new scroll beside her, matching her finger as it swirls through the air like an instructor, guiding every stop and turn.

A few consecutive taps at her door direct her attention to it. The quill falls, blots ink on the paper. The Foe Glass reveals nothing but frosty ambivalence, and she tells the door to open. A familiar face is behind it. He is a mop of red hair and a devil-may-care grin.

"Wow," he says. "You look like shit."

Unaffected, she sighs and rubs her eyes. The whites are surely marbled with red lines, pronounced by the probable dark circles below them. There's nothing to argue so she doesn't dispute. It prompts her brother to break the silence.

"Dad swung by your flat yesterday. Said he was worried because your post was untouched." Hugo is taller than their father now. The shadows he paints across her office walls dance as he moves toward her desk. He drops himself into the squishy leather armchair before it.

"I've been working."

"On what?" he wonders, suspiciously.

"Puffskein," she says without a beat. "Discovering whether they're eating the mucus compound for sustenance or whether they need a certain bacteria within it."

"That's revolting," he says with a sickened look. "Quit immediately."

She smiles at that. Number One hides somewhere within the deep recesses of her mind; quiet and still. There are only three people who know Number One's identity, and she is one of them. It was time to put that part of her away. She was only Rose Weasley now, Administrator of the Department of Magical Creatures, Head of the Research and Development Branch.

"It's Christmas Eve, you know." He looks at her pointedly. "Mum will be gutted if you don't show up… again."

"It was one time," she replies. Between them, the flame descends downward, struggling to keep its head above the pool of wax. "I got stuck in Scandinavia, couldn't help it."

"Studying the…. What was it again?"

"Veela," she reminds. The questions are annoying. She can't answer; not unless she desires a very unpleasant death.

Unspeakables make Unbreakables, after all.

Her book snaps shut and she stands up, grabbing her cloak. "Let's go." She takes her brother's arm when he offers it.

"So that book was about Puffskeins, you say? Somebody wrote a book about puffskeins in blood?"

"They were clearly very devoted."

The door slams shut as they leave.

The flame sinks below and is lost.

* * *

The winter is a harsh one. A relentless snowstorm has moved in while she was confined in her office. Her eyes squint as she fights the wind, forcing her way to her parents' front door. Hugo is beside her and she's still clutching his arm. The giant oak door creaks open metres away from them. Their mother is there, her arms outstretched. Her hair has lost all color and is pulled back in a silvery bun.

"Come in, come in," she insists, motions them to move faster to her open arms. Like children, just for the moment, they forget their age – she, the oldest, was almost forty – and they hasten their steps. Their father appears in the doorway as they reach the top step to the grand tudor home. They take turns hugging their parents as they step inside.

Warmth washes over her as they pass through the door. She is already tugging off her scarf by the time she makes it to the living room. It is surprisingly empty, save for their Muggle grandparents and Hugo's new blonde wife. Rose greets her grandparents, hugs the new Mrs. Weasley awkwardly. "What were you all talking about?"

"Apparently an Unthinkable put a powerful memory blocker-thing on another Unthinkable," her Grandma Mary says. Rose blinks.

"It's all over today's paper, Rosie," her father says as he enters the room. "Haven't you seen?" He nods over to table beside the sofa.

'RITA SKEETER CRACKS CONSPIRACY WITHIN THE MINISTRY!' the headline reads. 'MUGGLE FAMILY SAYS "WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR SON?"'

"There is a family of Muggles saying the Ministry came to them and told them their Unspeakable son died during fieldwork," her father explains. "A few months later the wizard's Muggle father saw his son walking around London. Wizard had no idea he was talking to his father. That hag Rita Skeeter is saying there's a secret group within the Unspeakable Sector led by someone called Unspeakable Number One. She's saying Number One wiped his memory. Codswallop if you ask me."

"It's disgusting," says Grandpa Joe. "To play with peoples' minds like that." The room suddenly feels like it's closing in on her. She now understands the endless stream of owls she didn't check.

Rose sees her mother shut her eyes and open them again, slowly. It is a sign that she is growing annoyed. "Sometimes people have to make hard decisions, Dad," her mother says, and it makes Rose swell with relief. Did her mother know? Why else would she justify wiping someone's memory? "If the end justifies the means, it's worth it. If this is true, who knows what kind of work he's doing? It could be for everyone's benefit, including the wizard's, that he doesn't remember anything about his personal life."

Her Grandmother opens her mouth to argue, but Rose cuts her off.

"Where is everyone else? Grandma Weasley? The Potters?" Rose asks, changing the subject.

"Grandma Weasley will be here soon," her mother says. "But the rest aren't coming."

"Why?" she asks, surprised.

"Uncle Harry has a headache."

* * *

Christmas morning, she wakes up with his arms around her.

"When are we going to tell everyone?" she asks. She knows he's up. He's always up before her.

"I don't know," he says. "I'll probably be killed. By your family – if my own doesn't get to me first."

"Probably," she agrees.

He pins her wrists to the bed and trails kisses from her chin to her chest. Sunlight seeps through the window and bathes the room in illumination.

Scorpius is a constellation of silver light above her.

* * *

Later that evening, she is back at her parents' house. The Weasleys are meeting here before they head over to the Potters'. Rose is sitting on the sofa, alone, while the rest of the room is paired. Uncle George is there with his wife and children, grandchildren. He keeps looking to his other side, as if to say something. He turns away when he realizes there's nobody there. He was different before the war, they've said. But this is how she has always known him to be. A bit touched.

The room is packed before too long. The amount of blood relatives and extended family is enough to overwhelm the most social of people, but she has adjusted to this over the years. Even her old Herbology Professor, Neville Longbottom, is here with his wife Hannah. Their marriage has always been strange in Rose's eyes. They never seemed to fit together. Professor Longbottom is such a handsome man. She has harboured a fancy for him for as long as she can remember. When she was in school, he was kind to her, protective of her. He treated her like her mind was a precious thing, strong and enlightened. Once, a few years after Hogwarts, when she was young and foolish, and uncaring that he had a wife, she asked him to have a drink with her.

"Are you mad?" he had asked. Clearly she was not as coy as she thought she was. "I'm married. And even if you meant that in a friendly way, which I'm certain you didn't, your mother would skin me alive, skin _you_ alive too."

"My mother?" she'd laughed, ignoring the former reason. Her mother, who refused to kill even spiders, insisting on scooping them up and putting them outside. Her mother, who flossed after every meal? Her mother, who spent her life more involved with creature rights than the lives of her own children. Always buried in a book when Rose wanted attention, always working on some thesis even when they were on vacation? "She works with _house elves_."

He looked at her then, harshly, and it was unnerving from such a kind man. It was the first time she shrunk under his gaze. "You don't know her at all. You weren't there. You didn't see." Instinctively, she knew he was talking about the war. That's how all the adults spoke about it, on the rare occasions that they did. Vaguely, with a thousand-kilometre stare. "Your mother is the most brilliant mind that ever lived. Don't ever insult her again."

She found out later from her Aunt Ginny that Neville Longbottom had loved her mother since they were both eleven years old. Any kindness he had shown her as she blossomed was solely because she, Rose, reminded him of her mother. She did not pursue him further. In her later years, she was ashamed of herself and spoke very little to him after that.

Shaking the memory away, she ignores Hannah Longbottom's stare, afraid she'll try to make conversation. Instead, she gazes at the Christmas tree. It is full of glittering ornaments. Twinkling fairy lights glide around the tree, over branches and under them, swaying slowly. It has an eerie beauty. Her mother is beside it, adjusting one of the snow globes on the mantle, ever the perfectionist. She has a certain eerie beauty about her too, even if it isn't conventional; and even in these later years of her life. Her silver hair is braided elegantly and tied in a French knot this evening. As usual, she has forgone robes. Her sweater is a pale grey, soft and thick, woven with glimmering silver strands. Her white pencil skirt hugs her figure, and feet are bare – her heels are propped beside the fireplace. She always puts them on at the last minute.

"Alright, everyone," her mother announces once Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur finally show up. "Grab some floo powder."

Rose makes it to the fireplace first, reaches over the high mantle and dips her fingers in the powder, clasps them shut tightly. It feels silky between her fingers, like sifted flour. "Potter Residence, Godric's Hollow," she calls, clearly. She has done this a thousand times. The flames roar to life and she steps through.

Uncle Harry is on the other end, sitting comfortably, facing the fire. The world knows him as The Boy Who Lived and the man who defeated the Dark Lord in the Second Wizarding War. Now a feared and revered Head Auror. But this is how she knows him – a kind old man with messy hair, now mostly grey with a few black strands, rocking quietly in his favorite chair. He stands up as she appears and gives her a tight hug.

The rest of the family steps in behind her one by one, and the room soon erupts in loud banter and enthusiastic dialogue.

It is a comforting, familiar chaos.

* * *

Dinner is the normal holiday feast. Uncle Harry sits at the head of the table, with his wife on his left and Rose's mother on his right. This is how they always sit. The table is packed with polished silver platters, goblin-wrought with beautiful filigree. Upon the plates are tender meats that fall apart when you slice them, boiled, buttery potatoes, roasted vegetables, salty and crisp. Desserts are fluffy cakes with smooth icings, sweet sticky puddings, fruit platters drizzled in chocolate and dusted with powdered sugar. The room is loud and abuzz with various conversations. Rose answers questions when she's asked (some truthfully, others not) but she finds her thoughts often wandering to Scorpius, and what he might be doing at that very moment.

During dessert, WWW's Christmas crackers explode around her. A mechanical Santa that's charmed to walk around the table saying "ho, ho, ho" leaps out of one. She watches as it marches toward a bowl of pudding, lifts itself up, and teeters on the edge before it drops down, face-first, into the bowl. It struggles to stand, stuck in the toffee topping. Hugo and Teddy snap a cracker beside her and it's filled with live fairies that burst out in an explosion of color. Too shy to stay in full view of everyone, they zoom for cover under her curly locks. By the end of dessert, there are so many fairies nestled in her hair that Teddy's little boy starts calling her a Christmas tree. He vanishes into the sitting room for a minute or two and comes back in with colorfully wrapped presents in his arms, and he stacks them neatly all around her. Everyone, including her, has a good laugh.

* * *

As Rose helps bring the dishes into the kitchen, she sees her parents and Uncle Harry stand. They retreat into the sitting room, alone. Aunt Ginny eyes them as she picks up a fruit platter but says nothing. It's the same every holiday, every family get-together. Those three go off somewhere to be alone, usually to the sitting room, where Uncle Harry sits in his rocking chair and they enjoy the silence together, or speak in quiet voices – conversations meant for nobody else's ears. Rose has heard stories that those three went off together for a time before Voldemort was destroyed. She has always wanted to know more, but she never had the courage to ask. No-one ever talked about it. It was an unspoken rule not to drudge up the memories of the war.

Loud laughter startles everyone in the dining room. The three friends are laughing louder than she has ever heard them. "Look at her," she hears Uncle Harry say. "She can't stop, she's almost crying."

Rose adjusts her head to see her mother bent over on the sofa, her face flushed from trying to reel in her laughter. "I'm not crying," she insists between gasps for air, "my eyes are just glistening with the ghosts of my past!" It makes the two men with her laugh louder.

Rose doesn't get the joke.

* * *

Hours later, the whole family is in the sitting room. Torn pieces of glittering wrapping paper in various shades of reds and golds and silvers are littering the floor. Everyone is holding their gifts up as they open them, calling thank-yous across the room, some trying to wade through the sea of paper for hugs and kisses. The kids have already torn open their toys and abandoned them to dive under the wrapping paper together. Rose has a pile of books beside her, along with baubles of pretty perfumes and hand-crafted candles, handmade cards, a glimmering gold chain and trinkets of varying sizes and purposes. Her mother comes over to hug her, to give her a kiss. She smells of spicy cinnamon and warm nutmeg from the Christmas tea Aunt Ginny fixed.

She's in her mother's arms when Uncle Harry stands up. She watches as he sways on his feet unsteadily. Rose isn't the only one to see it. Various others in the room ask him if he's okay. He yells then, and it terrifies Rose. Her mother yanks away at the sound, wrenching around to see what's going on. Harry Potter clutches his head and falls to his knees.

Her mother moves faster than Rose has ever seen her go, pushing past the crowd that has gathered around him. Rose follows behind her, watches as her Uncle holds up his hand to his wife. "No, Ginny," he says. "Stay away." There is panic in his voice. He is fighting convulsions. "Hermione," he calls forward, and Rose's mother darts toward him. Aunt Ginny watches it unfold in shock. Whether from his condition or his need for his friend and not his wife, Rose is unsure.

"What is it, Harry?" asks her mother, getting to her knees too, wrapping her arms around him. "Tell me."

"Something's wrong," he says gasping, shaking. His hands are cupped over his forehead. It's only then she remembers that that's wear his scar is. Rose has never seen her uncle look so terrified. Or so frail.

"Ron!" her mother cries out, and then Rose's father is at her side, lifting Uncle Harry up, as though he weighed no more than a child. "Lay him down on the sofa." And he does.

Uncle Harry is convulsing again and the room is in a panic. The older generation is shouting, asking if they should floo a medi-witch. Grandma Weasley is sitting in her armchair, crying. Aunt Ginny, too, is sobbing as she stares. A dread has filled the room, one that Rose doesn't fully understand. She looks over at Hugo, at Teddy, at Victoire. They are all as bewildered by it as she is. "What's going on?" Rose calls out. She gets shushed.

"Harry," she hears her mother say, "talk to me. Tell me what you're feeling. Is it—"

"Yes," he struggles, and nearly everyone in the room gasps. Rose has a view of Uncle Harry through the shoulders of the Longbottoms. Harry Potter is crying desperately while her mother kneels beside him, holding his hand to her chest. Her father is there, too. The sight of the three of them breaks her heart.

"Don't be afraid," her mother says softly, her free hand pushing the hair away from his now-sweaty forehead. Rose sees it clearly then; the jagged lightning-bolt shaped scar. "We're here, Harry. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried, Hermione," he says, stronger now despite his shaking body. "I am with you."

It is the first time she sees her mother cry.

* * *

After that night, the days pass in an onslaught of fractured pieces of a whole. She tries to grasp at them, put them all together, but she comes up short. Uncle Harry has not left his house in days as far as she knows. Her mother and father are constantly at his side. They speak in hushed voices. Clips of conversation reach her ears when she visits him. She lingers outside his door, straining to hear.

"Could he have had another one, Hermione?" asks Uncle Harry. Why was the Head Auror looking to her mother for answers?

"I suppose it's possible. Yes, it's possible. It could have been done while we were on the run, or during the last battle, I suppose…" Her mother's voice is calm, determined, so sure of itself. "At a time when you were too distracted to feel him do it."

"Hermione? Do you have any theories on how? Who he killed for it? Grindelwald?" she hears her father chime in.

"It couldn't have been, he had no time," says Uncle Harry. "He was rushing back to Malfoy Manor. Hermione, what do you think?" he asks again.

Her mother responds with silence.

"Hermione, please," he begs.

"Snape," her mother says, finally. "I think he used Snape."

* * *

A week later, she finds her mother at Uncle Harry's kitchen table, scouring the newspaper.

The front page reads 'DUMBLEDORE'S TOMB DESECRATED.'

* * *

It's raining the day the world ends. Not the vicious kind, not in a foreboding, foreshadowing way. It is a gentle rain signaling spring. New beginnings.

Her mother is heading toward the fireplace at half a run when Rose floos in.

"Oh, hello, dear," her mother says kindly, a hand on her own chest as though she's trying to settle her startled heart. "I was on my way out – Ginny and I were talking through the mirrors and then it just – went black. I wanted to make sure everything was alright. Excuse me," she adds and grabs a handful of floo powder before Rose can get a word in.

Rose follows her, steps in right after her mother.

When she steps out of the Potter's fireplace, a hand wraps around her mouth to keep her from screaming. Her mother is behind her, holding her mouth shut. At first, her brain thinks 'imposter!' and she struggles, but she realizes what's surrounding them. Paintings are ripped, dangling from their nails. The room is cloaked in faint light from the other room. Uncle Harry's rocking chair is overturned. There are dark puddles, still wet, on the carpet before them. Spatters of blood and a long, rectangular stain extend from the sofa to the doorway, to the hardwood floors in the corridor.

A man laughs somewhere in the other room and the sound draws her attention to the door. The sound chills her to her core.

"Get out of here, Rose," her mother whispers in her ear. "Get to the Ministry and tell them that there's an intruder in Harry Potter's home." The pressure on her mouth is gone; her mother has let her go.

And then her mother runs down the dark hall, wand at the ready.

It happens fast – her mother blasts the kitchen door clean off its hinges. Rose darts in right behind her mother, manages to throw her arms up over her head as a shower of sparks explode directly above her. Fragments of her surroundings flicker across her vision, fast as a shutter, over and over, disorienting her. A clock crashes down from above, lands her back. She falls, hits her head.

The images come in flashes: Aunt Ginny is laying on the floor, a puddle of blood surrounding her. There is a creature bent over her; half man, half beast. Rose throws a _stupefy_ and it dodges, runs towards the other end of the room. She tries to clamber backwards, find enough grip to stand, but her arms give way; she's slipping on blood. Something hits her then, out of nowhere, and she goes rigid. Her limbs will not obey the instructions she's giving them. She can only watch her mother helplessly.

And then she sees her cousins, James and Lily. They're still. Lifeless on the ground, and – "oh, god," she tries to say, to scream, but nothing comes out. Albus is on his side, his face close to hers, choking on and spitting up blood. He exhales one last time, long and deep. He lays quiet and still after that.

A thunderous boom explodes from the other end of the room. There are three cloaked figures dancing, spinning, into and out of sight as they unleash a barrage of spells. It's only then that she realizes who is holding them all off. It isn't Head Auror Harry Potter.

It's her mother.

For the first time in her life, Rose Weasley understands why people speak in hushed voices about the mind of her mother; the dangerous edge to her intelligence, the way her wand slashes like blade. It is a terrifying thing to see. The sheer power that her mother commands moves through the room like a wave of static, raising the hairs on her arms, sending a chill straight up her spine. A tsunami of white-hot sparks erupt from her mother's wand and sends the three cloaked men soaring backward.

The beast-like creature lunges at her from behind and Rose wants to shout, to warn her mother, but she can't find her voice. It doesn't matter – her mother senses him coming, flicks her hand over her shoulder. The beast – a werewolf, by the looks of it – loses his momentum, stops in midair. He lingers just long enough for Rose to see his face turn from smug to alarmed, and then he's thrown backwards, writhing, screaming. Her mother steps forward, red light illuminating her dark features.

"Where is he, Fenrir?" her mother asks. The tone of her voice is foreign to Rose – it is quiet, menacing. Deadly. "Where is Harry?"

The creature roars again, calls her mother a slew of foul names – he's being tortured, she realizes with a start. She's watching her mother use the Cruciatus on a werewolf.

"Fuck you," Fenrir spats out. "Mudblood," he laughs. "Whore. You'll be dead soon, too. You and your pretty daughter." He lunges at her, Rose. She finally screams then, finds her voice. The jet of green light from her mother's wand hits him in the back. He falls down in a heavy heap on top of Roses legs, limp.

"I told you to get out of here," her mother says, eerily calm. Spirals of silver smoke slip from her wand. They are shapes – animals made of light. They are patronuses, she realizes. They speed off through the broken windows, disappear on the horizon.

"What are you doing?" Rose whispers, finally able to move her lips. Her voice is shaking but her body is still. She cannot steady the sound of her voice. Her heart is racing so fast she can feel the blood pumping to her head, flushing over her cheeks.

"Warning the others," she says. Her hands are outstretched towards Rose. "What were you hit with? Was it a Petrific—"

That one moment of weakness – that small fraction of time where they were nothing more than a hurt child and a concerned mother – was the chink in her mother's armour. A violent, bluish black jet of light hits her mother from the other end of the room. Rose screams as her mother falls, clutching her side, gasping in pain. "Run, Rose, run," her mother calls, but she can't. She's bewitched; terrified. Freezing, too – her breath is coming out in harsh exhales. Clouds of condensation form in front of her nose and mouth.

"Drop your wand, Granger," comes a whisper through the dark. "Or he dies. And your little daughter too." There is a gaunt-looking man in the doorway. She can see his breath as well. There's a silver, skeletal-like mask curving around the contours of his face. The skin of his neck is pale like porcelain and his hair is a familiar silky white. Uncle Harry is sitting at the man's feet, barely conscious. There is a wand to her uncle's temple.

"Draco," her mother says to the man, "what are you doing?" There is a sadness to her tone, though Rose does not understand why. "The Aurors are on their way. They'll be here any second."

"Then they're a second too late," he says. His voice is sad, too. Solemn.

Her mother drops her wand, throws it at Draco's feet.

Rose's mother is shaking now. At first, Rose thinks it's from fear – but no, it's not fear. A frigid cold has crept upon the room, seeping into their skin, carving out their insides. There is a darkness just outside, blackening the windows. It's seeping in through the broken panes of glass, the cracks beneath the doors. They glide in like smoke, ink-black and toxic. The room is so cold it burns her skin. They flood into the house, hover over all of them like storm clouds. They're churning, drinking them in, devouring them.

"No," her mother says, crying. "Not this. Not like this." The darkness is dipping down towards them, inhaling them. Uncle Harry wakes up then – he's yelling at the top of his lungs, sobbing. The dementors are affecting him in a horrifying way. One of them reaches out with a boney, scabbed hand, grips her uncle by his throat. "Harry," her mother cries. "Harry, fight it!"

But her uncle looks down, sees the bodies of his wife, his children. Rose can see it in his eyes – he has no more fight left in him. He falls limp, stops struggling. He takes a deep breath and lets it go; greets death as his old friend.

"No!" her mother screams.

Harry Potter's soul is a fistful of light, so bright it's blinding.

It ascends, higher and higher, until darkness swallows it whole.

The hand on his neck releases its grip and he falls to the floor in a crumpled heap. The body left behind is breathing shallow breaths but there is no recognition in his eyes. Just an empty stare. Draco steps forward, a new wand in hand. It is a wand she has only seen in pictures. The elder wand. There is an illustration somewhere in her office, a page from a book. She can see it in the forefront of her mind, etched in blood.

"That's the horcrux he made from Snape?" her mother's voice pulls her back to the present. It is hoarse from exhaustion, from tears. "The Elder wand?" There is no answer. Draco stays silent, his own wand pointed at her mother, cautious and careful. Rose's vision is blurring. She struggles to stay conscious. "It's not too late. We can destroy it, Draco. You'd never be a slave again."

"Don't you understand?" asks Draco, and Rose realizes he's crying, too. "It's too late. All they needed was a vessel."

The dementors swoop down again, swarming around her uncle like a tornado. She thinks they're breathing him in until a marble of light, dim and flickering, emerges from a dementor's mouth. It descends slowly, creeping towards her Uncle's open lips. It enters the cavern of his mouth and vanishes somewhere deep within him.

Harry Potter's eyes widen, shocked. He gasps for air like he's learning how to breathe. The whites of his eyes change, darken. Irises go from green to red. He rises, slowly. Slips the Elder wand from Draco's hand.

"Well, well," her uncle says, dragging out every syllable. There is something different about the tone of his voice. "Hermione Granger." He steps over Lily Luna's body, slowly. A cat circling its prey. His index finger tilts her mother's chin up, lingers there. "Shall I kill you first? Or your daughter?"

"Do what you want with me," her mother pleads. "But let my daughter go."

Harry's smile is a cruel, vicious thing. "Your daughter first, then."

It's an indescribable feeling, knowing she's going to die. She wants to be brave like her uncle, tries to gather her courage and face her end. The curse that hit her earlier is shutting her down anyway. She can barely keep her eyes open. The elder wand points directly at her.

And then there are shimmering wisps of animals darting throughout the room, stampeding through the air, hunting the dementors as they scatter. Cracks of apparition can be heard throughout the grounds. Aurors are bursting through the windows, throwing stunners at Draco. They stop for a moment, a fraction of a second, when they think their job is done. But Harry Potter starts attacking, making a path to the door. The Aurors, some confused, some steadfast, try to stop him. It's no use.

He's already gone.

* * *

Kingsley Shacklebolt disbands the secret sector of the Unspeakables a week later.

"But my research! Years of it, Kingsley!" argues Rose, horrified.

"Don't you realize how terrible that information would be in the wrong hands?" he explains, shortly. "When the Ministry falls again – and it will fall again – all of that information will be his."

Rose opens her mouth, shuts it again. There is fear twisting inside of her. "What if that information is our only chance to survive?"

The Minister of Magic sits back in his high leather seat, stares at her sadly.

"Then we're doomed anyway, Rose."

* * *

One month to the day, the Ministry is raided. Rose is in her office when it begins. At first she only hears a distant noise outside, some sort of commotion down the hall or on another floor. It takes her a few heartbeats to realize the sound she's hearing is screaming. She starts knocking books off her shelves, dropping them into her mother's old purple bag. Scrolls too. Whatever she can find that's in reach.

The door snaps open. Her parents and her brother are there, rushing her. "We need to go, Rose. Now," her father says.

The last thing she grabs on her way out is a giant leather tome, its pages scrawled in blood.

It drops into the interior of her bag with a heavy thud.

* * *

They see Kingsley Shacklebolt one last time. He's in the atrium of the Ministry, ushering the panicking crowd towards the fireplaces, calling out instructions – get home, find your family, help each other.

"Come with us, Kingsley," her mother says to the Minister. "I'll protect you."

Rose looks from her mother to the Minister. There is no amusement on Kingsley Shacklebolt's face. For a brief moment, he actually looks like he's considering it. "No, Hermione," he says, finally. "My place is here. Go. Be safe."

Her mother doesn't argue. She only kisses the Minister's cheek and hurries along, moving towards the fireplace at a half-run.

Rose wants to say something to the Minister but doesn't know what. "Be safe, Minister Shacklebolt," is all she can say, all that she can muster. She takes off at a run behind her family.

"Rose!" shouts Kingsley Shacklebolt as she goes, his voice a thunderous sound over the crowd. She looks over her shoulder as she runs, but she hears him, clear as day:

"I release you from your vow."

* * *

They're all in the woods, hidden behind barriers and wards and bewitchment. Her entire family is here, and their friends, and friends of friends. A sea of tents as far as she can see are littered throughout the forest, propped up between trees, near campfires. She has no idea when, or how, her mother organized this. This is the third spot they've camped in the last month. Rose's mother insists on moving every week or so. There are two strict rules here. Do not mention their names. Not The-Boy-Who-Lived, and not You-Know-Who. And do not, under any circumstances, use magic while the wards are down.

Everybody flocks to Rose's mother with their conflicts, their problems. They look to Hermione Weasley for answers, for protection. It is strange to see her mother so stoic, so resolute in this leadership role. Rose understands now. This is how Harry Potter survived all those long decades ago. The camp whispers the answer, the name, like a prayer.

 _Hermione_.

* * *

Rose is called into her parents' tent on the second month of living on the run. Reports have come in – the Minister is dead. The Ministry has fallen. Muggleborns are being executed or kissed. She isn't sure which one is worse. The interior of the tent, like all the others, is a vast amount of space. Her mother is at the head of a long wooden table. She taps the seat beside her and Rose takes it.

"What were you working on?" her mother asks, quietly.

The muscles in her chest tighten. "What?"

"Kingsley Shacklebolt released you from your vow," her mother elaborates. The candlelight has cloaked half her face in shadow. Her eyes are endlessly dark. "He did that for a reason. You were working on something that he thought we'd need. What was it?"

Rose shifts uncomfortably, says nothing. Her mother rests her hand on Rose's arm. "You were Unspeakable Number One." Blue eyes meet brown. Rose is shocked. Her mother smiles in a forlorn way. "I know. Now tell me, Rose."

And she does.

* * *

"Are you mad?" Rose's father asks his wife. He is entirely serious.

"Probably," her mother answers. "But it might be our only chance."

Her father is quiet, still. Options are being weighed and measured in his head.

"But I thought it was a children's story?"

"It is," says her mother. "But so were the Deathly Hallows."

This statement gives him pause. He sighs then, gives up trying to argue. "Alright. Rose," he addresses her. "Show me this book of yours."

* * *

Neville Longbottom is brought into the tent before long. Rose is confused by this, though she is not sure why. It surprises her how much her mother trusts him. She cannot remember much interaction between the two old classmates through the years – none that Rose saw, anyway.

"Whatever is said in this tent," her mother whispers to him, "you cannot tell Hannah."

Without hesitation, he agrees. Neville Longbottom's loyalty to her mother is unwavering. Rose puts the book in front of him, flips to somewhere in the middle. Three crude ruins are painted across the page. The translation is simple:

 _Fair Fortune's Fountain_.

* * *

The camp is destroyed three weeks later. Someone used magic while the wards were down. They never found out who. The survivors thought it might have been a child. Teddy's boy, most likely.

Many die. They are not strange faces, not nameless bodies in a crowd. These are people she knows, people she loves. The Lovegoods, the Thomas family, the Finnegans. Hannah Longbottom dies too. She took a killing curse for Rose.

They try to take as many of the dead as they can when they escape. Rose goes back for Hannah's body, holds it tight when she dissapparates.

They set up camp at a new location, try to collect what's left of their sanity.

* * *

Teddy cradles the body of his dead son for hours after the surviving members of the camp relocate. It isn't until Rose's father pries the child away that Teddy finally lets go, sobbing all the while. Rose keeps thinking about how tiny the boy is, about the way the Christmas presents nearly tipped him over when he brought them to her.

Hugo, mad with grief over the wife Rose never bothered to get to know, begins to dig a grave with his bare hands. One by one, they all start helping him. Teddy helps too, shaking and weeping. The survivors lay their dead side by side. Hermione kisses Luna's forehead, cries over her body. They lay the small boy in his mother's arms. Victoire is still beautiful, even in death.

Little Remus looks like he's only sleeping.

* * *

They are found again three weeks later. With all her mother's hard work, there was cause for concern. She was worried all these weeks, jumping at any sound, afraid that Voldemort had Harry's memories.

When the wards around the camp fall, Hermione Weasley bows her head. The worst possible scenario has been confirmed.

Voldemort knows Hermione as well as Harry had.

* * *

There are so many killing curses zooming through the chaos of camp that the forest is bathed in emerald light. Everything she sees is a shade of green. People around her are screaming, running, abandoning everyone in their haste to escape. Her mother is taking on Harry – Voldemort – alone. She's matching him blow for blow. The ground is breaking beneath them. Hermione is yelling, telling everyone to run, to get to safety. Neville Longbottom is beside her, throwing curses at a masked figure.

Rose can't find her father. She sees her brother, calls over to him. Old Mundungus Fletcher disapparates just as an avada kedavra hurls toward him. Her brother is standing right behind him. The spell hits Hugo square in the chest. Her mother screams; Rose wonders if she saw it happen – but she couldn't have. Maybe mothers can feel it when their children die.

The explosion her mother sends Voldemort's way kills four of the Death Eaters flanking him. Pieces of them fall from the sky, litter the camp. Voldemort retreats long enough for the surviving refugees to escape.

Hugo's death almost kills her mother.

* * *

For eighteen days, her mother doesn't move. She lays in the bed of Rose's makeshift tent. Doesn't ask where they're camped, doesn't make the effort to eat. She cries sometimes, quietly. When Rose tries to talk to her, to motivate her to do something – anything – her mother says nothing. She only asks for her husband. Everyone is too afraid to tell her that they never found him. They left without him. There was no choice.

Rose cannot sleep. Anxiety has burrowed into her chest, a constant companion. Hugo dies every time she closes her eyes. When everyone else is asleep, she begs the universe to have her father back. Pleads for her father to find them. To fix them. To take the fear away. But Ron Weasley is gone. Everyone else is leaving too. They think Hermione has lost her mind, think they're better off on their own. Eventually, there's only four of them left.

When her mother finally realizes that her husband isn't coming back, she drags herself out of bed. Rose is outside of the tent with Neville and Teddy when it happens. They're the only ones who haven't left, the only ones who haven't abandoned hope. Her mother's hair is wild, her gait is steadfast. There's something in her eyes that's different – an emptiness. Madness, maybe.

"I'm going to kill them all," her mother says.

They believe it.

* * *

The Death Eaters are relentless. There is never a moment where they can breathe easily. Worry is thick in the air, suffocating them.

"Why are they following us like this?" Rose asks.

Her mother takes pause, carefully considers the question. "One of two reasons," she says. "Did your uncle know about the fountain?"

Knots twist in her stomach. She's afraid to say the answer out loud. "Yes. He did."

Rose watches as her mother stares out into the night, dispirited. "That's why, then. He's hoping we'll lead him to it."

"And what if we do?" she questions, doubting herself, her mother, her mission.

"If it comes to that," her mother warns, "you run like the devil is on your heels. Get to the fountain. I'll kill him if I can."

"Do you think you can? He looks like the boy you grew up with. He might try to use that to his advantage. He might manipulate you."

"Oh, darling," her mother laughs. "You don't know me at all."

* * *

They're hunted like animals for the next year. No matter how far they get from Wizarding Britain, the Death Eaters are not far behind. Rose is doing everything in her power to find what they're looking for. All those years of research and she still has nothing to show for it. She knows the answer is here, in these macabre runes. Her days are spent scouring the text, over and over. Her nights are filled with fitful dreams of fountains spouting blood.

"Are you close?" her mother asks, once, after nearly a year on the run. It is the first time she has mentioned it in a long while. Rose is never pressed for answers – not by her mother.

"I… Yes… I think so…" Rose's voice sounds timid, even to her own ears.

They're encircled around a fire, somewhere in Scandinavia. The winter of their lives is eternal. Rose cannot remember the last time she was warm. Teddy shivers beside her, wrapped in blankets. He tries to pull them tighter but it's no use. This cold seeps through layers like acid.

Neville is beside her mother, one arm around her shoulders. Hermione is drawn close to him, drinking in his warmth. It is a sight Rose has grown used to. Oftentimes, when she sees them like this, she wonders if Neville is happy to have gained her mother by default. Sometimes she wonders if her father is rolling over in his grave, or whatever unmarked hole the Death Eaters buried him in. What would Hugo say if he could see his mother now?

"Leave the book by my bed," her mother says. "I want to look at it."

"Fine," Rose replies.

The fire spits embers between them.

* * *

"The Caribbean," her mother announces the next day. "I think it's in the Caribbean."

Rose stares, mortified. "I've been staring at that book since before the war. From which part did you gather its location?"

"Nothing in this book has the answer," her mother tells her, handing the tome back to Rose like it's nothing more than an old copy of Hogwarts, A History. "But the Muggles have a similar story. Wizards call it The Fountain of Fair Fortune. Muggles call it The Fountain of Youth."

* * *

It takes months to make the journey to the Caribbean. Carefully plotted apparitions, broomsticks that they've charmed themselves, and illegal portkeys have led them to a warmer climate. Rose's mother insists on an erratic journey – they never travel from Point A to Point B in a straight line. They are always all over the map, hopping from here to there and back again. It keeps them one step ahead of the Death Eaters – it keeps the enemy guessing.

* * *

On the eve before the summer solstice, they're on a sandy beach eating roasted fish. The water nearby is a vast, clear turquoise. It's so clear that Rose can see fish swimming in it from metres away. It would be a lovely picture for the postcards if they weren't covered in sweat; with matted hair and blackish buildup under their fingernails. They're sinking their teeth into the flesh of the fish like starved animals, spitting out the bones like they can't eat fast enough. The yellowtail is sweet on Rose's tongue, delicate and succulent. She wants to savor it but she doesn't have the patience.

"What if it's not here?" Teddy asks, a long while later, when all the fish has been consumed and the sun is mere hours from rising. They were supposed to rest, to sleep, but none of them can.

"Then we're fucked," Neville answers confidently.

Her mother laughs, and the sound is so foreign to Rose's ears that she snaps her head over to watch, to make sure it's really happening. She has not laughed since before Hugo fell and Rose's father was lost. But there she is, staring up at the clear sky and the constellations above, genuinely laughing.

"Do you think we're in the right spot?" asks Rose, pulling her mother back to reality. "What if we're not? The fountain only accepts a worthy soul once a year."

"We won't know until we know," comes her mother's simple reply. "Get some sleep now. All of you."

* * *

It's an hour before daybreak. Teddy is fast asleep, calm. Neville's sleep is more fitful, but it always has been. Rose cannot sleep. Her mother has not moved in a long time, and very quietly, Rose lifts her head to check if she's awake.

"What is it, Rosie?" her mother asks. It brings tears to her eyes. That was her father's nickname for her.

"I'm afraid," she replies. She hadn't meant to say it, to be so blunt, so honest.

A few beats of silence pass. "What's coming will come," Rose's mother says, finally, "and we'll meet it when it does." A thick silence follows.

"Mum," she says meekly, and she recognizes how childish it sounds.

Her mother hums a response.

"You mentioned once that I didn't know you at all." She turns her head, tries to garner her mother's reaction. "You were right."

There is a frown on her mother's face. "I suppose I was a bad mother, looking back at it. I was always distracted. Not involved enough."

"You weren't bad," Rose says, and she surprises herself. "You aren't bad. You were never a bad mum. But I was a terrible daughter. Am a terrible daughter."

"No you're not, Rose. You're a very good daughter and I'm proud to be your mother."

Rose can feel hot tears trickling down to her ears at that. She's not sure why she wanted to hear it, needed to hear it. "I was mad at you for a very long time," she confesses. "I used to be mad that you were simple and boring. Then I was mad at you because you were terrifying and powerful. I was mad that you were clever. More clever than I am. But I realize now that I've been mad at myself. Mad that I wasn't more like you. I'm useless. A burden. You're the hero of this story. Not me."

"Merlin's beard, Rose," her mother exclaims, sitting up. "You are not useless and you most certainly are not a burden. You don't ever have to be anything other than who you are. That is enough in my eyes. Life is not a competition." Her eyes soften. They're not a blackish brown as Rose had originally thought – they're a deep chocolate, smooth and warm. "You're more like me than you realize." Rose gives her mother a skeptical look at that comment. Her mother continues, "I have the advantage of age. I grew up in a time of war. My only goal was to survive, to make sure my children would never know the fear we felt back then. See? I'm not the perfect person you've created in your head. I've failed." A laugh bubbles out of her mother's mouth, though the look on her face says she doesn't think it's very funny at all. "That's my boggart – did I ever tell you? Failure."

Rose laughs when she hears it, wipes away her tears. "It's mine, too." Her mother smiles, a perfect row of white teeth. It hurts to see her mother smile, hurts because she's scared she'll never see that smile again. "I'm afraid," she says again. "I wish I wasn't. I wish I was different."

"Bravery isn't the absence of fear, Rose. Bravery is running directly at danger even though you're afraid." There's a pause after that. Rose wonders what her mother is thinking. "I used to be like you," she adds. "I would dream of being a different person."

Her mother's eyes move skyward. Rose wonders if she's dreaming what she used to dream, if she's seeing the girl she wanted to be somewhere in the stars. "I wanted to be someone wild," her mother says. "Someone free."

* * *

Overnight, a wall has erected itself. An endless slew of plants, branches, thorns. It stretches wide around them, higher than them, too. The vines awake with the sun, stretch their limbs as the light envelopes them. The four of them are standing in front of the ruins, squinting in heat, watching as a crack of light appears. They do not try to blast their way through it as it parts. Her mother thinks nature will reclaim them if they do. The four of them are cast in shadow before the wall. Rose steps forward, holds her arms out, waits for the plant to reach out and grab her. It doesn't.

It reaches for her mother instead.

The booming claps of apparition startle her even though she was expecting it. The Death Eaters are zooming towards them. Maybe they were there the whole time, waiting in silence. Rose grabs onto her mother, Neville does too. Teddy throws up a shield just in time to protect them all – he grabs onto Neville's leg. The vines are pulling her mother – pulling all of them – through the impenetrable wall of razor-sharp leaves. A hand wraps around Rose's ankle and thinks maybe Teddy lost his grip, tried to grab onto Rose while he could. But it isn't Teddy. A hand clad in leather is gripping her so tight she can feel pins and needles prickling down her leg.

Rose yells, tries to kick him off. It's no use. Death Eaters swarm over them like bees, wasps, grabbing whatever limbs they can. Who knows how many are getting pulled through the wall with them? The vines pull them through – the darkness feels like it's never going to end. Rose can feel her face and arms getting sliced, flesh ripping on thorns and god knows what else.

The wall spits them out on the other side. Rose can feel blood trickling down her chin to her neck. She has no time to think; the Death Eaters are already on their feet. Neville and Teddy are struggling to stand. Teddy is bleeding heavily from his leg. Her mother is upright, wand out. She brandishes it like a whip and the Death Eaters are lifted clean off of their feet. Some fall back, hit the wall hard. The vines wrap around their throats, tightens like a vice. They try to kick their feet but it only makes it worse. A mask falls off of one of them – Scorpius is bathed in sunlight. His face is turning purple. Rose turns away, sick.

The remaining Death Eaters clear a path. He's there – a face that used to comfort her. It's different now. His features are skeletal, snakelike.

"Run, Rose," her mother says. "Neville, Ted – go. He's mine."

Astonishingly, they bow before they begin. They maintain eye contact and bend at the waist – a form of respect. Rose is surprised by it, confused by it. They still acknowledge each other as a worthy foe, even through all of this death and war. They've taken so much away from one another, done everything they could to make the other miserable. And still they bow.

"Come on," calls Neville. Teddy pulls her, pushes her down the hill. He's limping, there's a big blackened stain on his robes, right over his leg. She almost loses her footing as she rushes down. The Death Eaters follow behind like an avalanche. Spells are whizzing past her ears. She can't think, can't do anything but run-run-run. Her heart is thumping in her ears. Voldemort and her mother are still dueling, it's all she can hear over the shouting behind her.

A sound like a nuclear bomb goes off and she wrenches her chin up to the sky. Her mother and Voldemort are overhead, flying without brooms. Rose has heard tales throughout childhood of great and terrible minds who taught themselves to fly without aid. She had heard Harry talk of Voldemort, and Severus Snape, who could leave the ground from sheer will. Dark, dark magic, he said.

Magic that her mother has mastered.

The two great foes crash down in front of them like a comet, the impact forms a crater in the earth.

"Go!" her mother cries. Fire erupts from the tip of her wand. At first, it's no bigger than the stroke a match – but it grows, twists, forms into a herd of monstrous beasts – it's fiendfyre. The flames gallop toward her and Rose screams, but they leap straight over her. They fall upon the Death Eaters and she can hear screaming. The smell of burning flesh coils into her nose and makes her cough. The screaming reaches a fever pitch – and then suddenly they're quieted. The flames disappear in a cloud of ashy smoke. Rose refuses to look behind, doesn't want to see what has become of her hunters.

Neville and Teddy grab her by the arms, pull her onwards. Blood is still seeping from her forehead, slipping down her shoulder. They run until they can't anymore. They hit the air in front of them like it's a solid wall. Something is stopping them. "No!" Rose cries. "It can't be!"

It's Neville Longbottom who points it out – a crude rune carved in the dirt. White worms and maggots burrow through the dirt. The symbol is deep. It translates to one simple word: Pain.

Rose falls to her knees, tries to remember the story. She wipes the tears from her eyes and rubs it into the Earth. It's doesn't work. "Tears," she tells her companions, desperately. "That's what the story said. The worm wanted pain and they fed the earth tears. I don't understand." Blood trickles down to the bridge of her nose. A heavy drop lingers there before it drops. The blood from her cuts saturate the soil. The earth is pleased. The ward collapses. Truth is more terrifying than fiction.

They move on, uphill. There are two more runes in the ground – "labour's fruit," she calls aloud as they run over it – and run. And run.

They run for an eternity. The muscles in her legs feel so tight she worries they'll snap. Her heart is skipping beats, palpitating from exhaustion. She wonders if she'll collapse. The ground is far below them but there is no end to the hill in sight. A fog has set in – or clouds, maybe. She cannot tell which. Teddy is stumbling beside her, holding the palm of his hand to the wound on his leg. "If anything happens," he struggles out, pale as snow, "you two keep going. Don't stop."

She tries to cheer him on, hangs her head so the sweat will fall. It doesn't work.

It isn't until Teddy falls that the fruit of their labour is paid. His leg gives out. Rose tries to grab him as he rolls past her but it happens too fast. He hits the ground below them with a horrible sound. "Teddy!" she cries, sobbing, but the figure below doesn't move. "We have to go back down," she calls to Neville.

Neville's hand is tight on her arm before she can turn – gripping so hard it's bruising. "We keep going," he commands. She tries to argue but he silences her. "It was an artery," he tells her. "He didn't survive that fall. If he did, he'll be dead by the time we get down there anyway. We keep moving."

Half-sobbing, she lets Neville guide her. There's a path off the left that wasn't there before. The steep hill evens out when they take it, the ground is level now. She leans all of her weight on Neville. He's thin from malnourishment but so much stronger than he looks. He holds her up as she walks. Like a child, Rose calls for her mother. She doesn't care if Neville can hear her. "Mum," she sobs. "Mum? Where are you?" Silence greets her.

She collapses when they reach the stream (or was it a river?), an endless babbling brook. A rune lay before it. "Treasure," she tells Neville. "It wants the treasure of our past." She puts her wand to her temple and tries to think. Scorpius is clear in her mind, his features so vivid she feels like she can reach out and touch him. The tip of her wand draws him out, a silver thread.

"What did you use?" Neville asks, and she opens her mouth to reply.

But she can't remember.

"I don't know," she says, dazed. "But it must have been something important." And she drops it into the river. The current washes it away.

"Maybe you need to do it, too?" she wonders. Neville puts his own wand to his temple. "What are you going to use?" she asks.

"Hannah," he says, and the strand stretches out as he pulls, breaks free from his skin and dangles over the water.

"Won't you miss her too much?" asks Rose.

"Miss who?" he asks, curiously, and the memory falls off his wand. It lingers, floats atop the water, until it too is washed away.

"I suppose we cross now," she tells Neville. They tread into the water. She thinks they'll make it until the current turns. The river sucks them under, spinning like a whirlpool. She tries to claw her way to the surface but she can't. There is no air in her lungs, nothing to sustain her. Desperately, she points her wand to her lips, tries to cast a bubblehead charm. It doesn't work. Neville is beside her, kicking like mad. Bubbles escape his mouth in huge bursts. She wonders if he's trying to scream. He clutches at his throat, stares at her as they sink deeper. He inhales deep, a reflex. His body convulses once, twice. And then he's still.

There is a pressure in her head. Black spots and white lights appear and disappear before her eyes. She's losing consciousness. Her desire to fight is waning. Giving up seems easier. And then, miraculously, two ropes appear. They dance down through the water like charmed snakes. She wraps her hands around one when it's close enough, holds it tight. Suddenly she's moving. She can feel the rush of water against her skin as she's pulled, feels the wind on her face when she breaches the surface. She gasps, inhales. Her lungs sting from the shock. She spits up a pint of saltwater before she even realizes who her rescuer is. It's her mother.

"Neville?" she asks, but from the look on her face, she already knows the answer.

"Gone," Rose coughs out. An emotion flickers across her face that Rose can't decipher. "Where is he?" she sputters, still coughing. "You-know-who?"

"Distracted," her mother tells her. "Though not for much longer, I suspect." It's curious, the way her mother can stay calm in the wake of such despair. "What did you give it?" she asks. "The water. What did you offer it? Did you use Scorpius?"

"Who's that?" Rose responds, baffled.

Her mother evaluates the water, guarded, suspicious. "What did Neville use?"

"Hannah, I think."

"And it didn't work." It's not a question. Her mother is working it out in her mind, putting the pieces together in a way Rose never could. Uncle Harry told her once, long ago, that her mother's mind was like the staircases in Hogwarts. Always moving, always connecting. Always showing them where they needed to go. "What sort of magic lay within this fountain? And is it worth it?"

Rose knows she's not meant to answer that question. It is something her mother is asking herself. She is weighing her option. "The story says the fountain has no magical powers. Do you think that's true?"

"No, Rose. I think there is a powerful magic within that fountain. I think the end to that story was a farce. For this fountain to be protected by such dark magic, there is certainly a spell upon that water. Or a curse."

A silence stretches.

A loud noise in the distance, behind them, worries Rose. Whatever the sound is, it's drawing closer. "Mum?"

"I know what it wants," says her mother, solemnly. "But I'm not giving that up."

Rose tries to argue. Her mother refuses to hear it. "Don't you see, Rose? Whoever got to this point turned away. They said the fountain had no magic because they realized that the cost of getting to it wasn't worth the price. What's the point of living if you lose what you're living for?"

"I don't understand, Mum," she says, quietly. But for once, she thinks she does. "What does it want?"

"The treasure of my past," answers her mother. "A mother's love. It wants you, and Hugo. I won't give it that."

"Oh," she says, and she realizes then that she's crying. Her tears fall, not from fear, but because she knows what must be done. And it hurts to have to do this, but she understands her purpose in this story after all. "You told us once, Mum," Rose reminds, and a calm has steadied her breathing, an eerie calm that makes her capable. She wonders if this is what bravery feels like. "Sometimes the end justifies the means."

Her mother looks down at the wand pointed at her in shock. "No!" is all she can say, but it's too late. Rose has already invaded her mind.

* * *

The memories of Rose and Hugo are a deep and endless well in her mother's mind. They rush past Rose's eyes in segments. Her mother's life is a roll of film on fast-forward. She takes only what she needs. She tears the memories away from her mother, one by one – key memories. Her wedding, their births; the mundane and cherished memories. She takes them all. The silver strands snap away from her mother's temple like rubber bands. When she's done, cupped in her palm is a puddle of swirling silver.

* * *

"Who are you?" her mother gasps when Rose is done. There is a vinewood wand pointed between Rose's eyes.

"I'm a friend," she says. The weight of what she has done is heavy on her chest. "I'm here to help you. Do you know your name?"

"Of course I know my name," her mother snaps. "Hermione… Granger."

"Do you know where you are? And why you're here?"

"I'm going to find the Fountain of Fair Fortune," her mother says, determinedly. "I have to get to it before Voldemort does." Her brown eyes stare across the water, confused. "But something was stopping me…" Her mother looks down at Rose's hand. "What is that?"

"Payment," is all Rose says, and she lets her mother's treasured past slip through her fingers into the water below. Giant rocks rise from the deep waters, creating a jagged path across. Something else rises in the distance, too. Rose can see it. It's enormous, bejeweled. The water it spouts glimmers in the sun like gold. "Go, Hermione," Rose tells her, the name sounding foreign on her lips. "I'll hold him off."

With one last odd look over her shoulder, her mother starts leaping from stone to stone. Hermione is almost to the other side when Rose hears the snap of twigs behind her. Uncle Harry is looking down at her. A jet of green comes at her and she dodges it, lunges at him like a rabid animal. He waves his hand and it stops her in mid-air, throws her onto the ground. Something in her side breaks; a rib, maybe two. She looks across the water, her mother is almost to the other side. She's close, so close. Voldemort makes a move to jump to the first rock. Rose catches him around the ankle.

He falls, lands on his elbow, but then he's up on his feet again. Rose, too, rises. Faces him, stares him down. His eyes are blood red. The sight of his eyes in her Uncle's face used to terrify her, to keep her awake at night. "Foolish girl," he laughs, and it's a cruel sound. "You're a fly in a web." He raises the elder wand. Behind him she can see her mother on the other side, a silhouette in the sun, teetering on the edge of the fountain.

"Oh, darling," she laughs. "You don't know me at all." She runs at him, throws all of her weight into him. They fall together, hit the water. The current turns. The river sucks them under.

The last thing she sees as her head sinks below the surface is her mother, far in the distance. Her arms are outstretched as she lowers herself into the fountain.

She looks wild.

She looks free.


	2. interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> author's notes:
> 
> I started a community. It's appropriately called "good shit." You can find it if you click "communities" on my profile. It's run by myself and trusted friends. You will find quality fics there from various fandoms. You might want to follow it.
> 
> I have a twitter. My handle is the same as my penname. I'm going to be more active on it soon. If you're interested in the author behind the fics, you may like to follow it. I also have a tumblr, same as my penname.
> 
> My beta position is cursed like the DADA position at Hogwarts. This has been a public service announcement.
> 
> This chapter is an interlude. A heartbeat. An eternity.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> Recently beta'd by [ amidtheflowers ]. Thank you, thank you! You did an amazing job and your comments were hilarious.

* * *

fair fortune  
by  
frwllfrnknstn

* * *

in·ter·lude: an intervening period of time.

* * *

Calm.

Quiet.

Nothingness.

This is the fountain's gift.

* * *

Water surrounds her in all directions for as far as she can see. She is still, floating in the dark depth. Her hair is a halo around her, swaying as it pleases. Somewhere above, she sees a glimmer. It beckons her forth. The faint illumination grows wider as she gets closer.

Nothing hurts. This must be death.

She isn't afraid she won't make it in time. There is a calm certainty that assures her she is fine; that she has nothing to worry about.

All is well.

* * *

White light and silence greet her as her head breaks the surface. It's bright, too bright to see. It bounces off the water, gleaming, blinding. Light is pulsing from all directions. She wishes she could see, wonders where she is.

The space around her answers. A few metres away, knee-deep in serene waters, is a woman. She is dressed in flowing white silks. Her skin is as milky as the fabric that clothes her. Auburn hair falls to her waist. The look on her face is sad. Lost.

"Excuse me?" Hermione asks. Her voice echoes. The woman looks to her but does not move from where she stands. "Where am I?"

"Don't you know?" the woman wonders. Their eyes meet. Hermione has only seen that color of green once before. On a boy. A boy who lived, a boy who died. Lily Potter has come to meet her, here at the end.

 _Don't you know?_ The echo reaches her again. Does she? Yes, she supposes she does. She's not here, not there. She's somewhere in-between. "How did I get here?"

"The fountain took you."

Well. So much for saving the world. "Lovely," she drawls. "So glad I spent the last years of my life searching for it."

Lily doesn't laugh. Maybe there's no humor in the afterlife. Only sadness lingers here, thick like a fog, rolling over still water. The woman's face remains crestfallen. Hermione wonders if it's her, Lily. If she's the reason this place is forlorn.

"It's a gift," Lily says after a long while, green eyes searching the waters like it's a dangerous cure, a gilded blade, a poison to answer to her prayers.

"How?" Hermione wonders. She treads water, nears Lily. She stands as she reaches something sloped – the shore, perhaps, if there is such a thing here. She is not clothed, she notes. Her body is younger now, unscarred. She wishes she had something to wear, anything, even Lily's silks. And then it's there, as soft as the water is on her skin, draped around her as if it had always been there.

"It is life," says Lily. "Youth. A second chance."

"To live?" she asks, looking down at the water guardedly. As if it might swallow her up and spit her back out in the hell she just came from. Her life, if one could call it that. That torment of an existence. She watched everyone she loved get torn apart by bravery, by love, and she alone chose her end. What did she have to show for it? Nothing. There was nothing to live for. Another journey, another struggle? Another fight? "I don't want it," she tells Lily. "This gift, this curse. No. I've seen enough of life. I'm ready for something else."

Lily looks away from her, stares out across the water. The fog rolls away and there's a shore in the distance. Hermione can see figures now, too, silhouetted by ethereal light. They're there, waiting for her. Shapes that are familiar to her, figures that she knows. So many of them peppering the horizon. The sight makes her breathe in, breathe out. A feeling swells within her; an emotion she has not felt in years, decades. Relief.

And there on the shore, standing ahead of all the others, is the figure of a man. The others move, trade places, try to wave. But this man stands still. Stoic.

"Go to him," Lily's voice breaks her reverie. She is smiling through her sadness, a gentle kindness. "Go," she says again, her voice a softened lull. "He has been waiting for you for so long."

So she does. There is sand under her feet as she leaves Lily behind, treads through the gleaming waters. Her pace quickens as she gets closer. The figures are coming into focus. She can make some of them out now. There are Grangers, Weasleys, a Lovegood, and oh, there's Neville, smiling at her from somewhere to the left. She nearly stumbles when she sees Ron and she feels laughter escaping her. Everyone is there.

The man straight ahead is still bathed in light from behind. She thinks it's Harry at first, but no. This man's hair is different, his gait is all wrong. He holds out his hand to her, reaches for her. The hand looks strong, steady. Familiar yet foreign.

Hermione reaches out, too. She tries to drink everyone in, all the faces of those she loved. Loves. Her fingers are outstretched, just about to brush his, when her smile falls. She stops. Her heart drops. Something's wrong. Something's missing. Someone.

"Where's Harry?" she asks. Her voice echoes over the water. The question reaches her again. But no answer comes. The fog rolls in again, and the smiles on her friends' faces fall. "Lily?" she asks, her hand still so close to the man's, so close she can feel the warmth of him.

"You know the answer to that question, Hermione," comes Lily's dejected reply. Hermione looks over her shoulder then, sees Lily is where she left her. She hadn't followed. The water is to her chest now. She is sinking. "The Dementors took him."

Fear twists her insides, winds tight around her heart like a vice. "And? Why isn't he here? Why didn't he come to meet me?"

The water is to Lily's chin now. The current has changed. It's harsh. Stirring. Winds are whipping, salty water is spraying over boulders, stinging Hermione's eyes. Lily lifts her head high enough to speak. Her long hair is afloat around her, dark from the water, pooled out like blood. "The dementors took him," she says again. One last echo carries across the water. "His soul is lost."

Hermione cries out, feels a wave of shock run through her body. Her heart is breaking. She turns round again, looks down at the man's hand, still reaching. She knows if she takes it she'll be placated. She'll be happy. There will be no more struggle, no more fighting. If she takes it, there will be no more fear. No more pain. Just a perfect feeling of content. Of happiness. It sounds nice, she thinks. It would be so simple to reach out, just another centimeter or two, and twine her fingers through his. It would be so easy.

But she thinks of Harry. Brave, sweet Harry. How little he cared for himself, how much he cared for her. For all of them. Her dearest friend, that integral piece of her soul. She thinks of what he'd do. What he'd do if he were her. What he'd do for her.

Hermione drops her hand, backs away from this man who has been waiting for her. Waited for so long, Lily had said. Waited for her in this heartbeat, this eternity. "I'm sorry," she whispers to him. His hand falls away from her. He does not sink back into the crowd. He stands still again. Stoic. Still waiting.

She turns away from him. Away from the welcoming light, the warmth, the comfort. She takes off at a run, splashes through the cold water, fights the current. "Lily!" she screams, but she cannot see her. "Lily, wait!" she calls out, yelling until she's almost hoarse.

"Lily, wait for me!" she yells out across the endless waters. The figures have faded, far off in the distance now, disappeared behind fog like they were nothing more than a mirage. "Wait!" But there's no one there. She's alone now, staring up at the churning abyss above her. She's crying, angry, desperate tears, cursing the water, the sky. "I want what was promised!" she screams to anyone, anything that's listening. "I choose the water," she says through sobs, with breath she can't catch. And finally, with all the conviction she can muster, almost enough to make her believe it herself, she cries out: "I choose life."

The water sucks her under.

The water is unrelenting around her, pushing, pulling, dragging her deeper and deeper. The light above fades to darkness. She whips her head around, fights the current, searching for something, anything. She's clawing at the water, kicking her feet, screaming out. Nothing but a dull sound and a stream of bubbles escape her. She can hear the water in her ears, rushing past, and she's panicking. There is no more calm, no more quiet, no more nothingness. Her chest hurts, she can't breathe. She's afraid she won't make it in time.

And then she sees her. Lily. She's long and lithe, waiting below, arms outstretched. Her face isn't sad anymore. She's smiling, wide. Relief. She's beckoning her closer, reaching out for her. Hermione stops struggling, lets the current take her. She and Lily collide, their limbs entwine. Searing hot pain rips through Hermione as her skin touches Lily's. She screams again, the water swallows the sound. Lily hold her close, holds her tight. Pain, pain. It's all she knows, all she can feel. They're floating in the dark depth. Their hair is a halo around them, swaying, tangling together as Hermione convulses. Somewhere above, she sees a glimmer. It beckons them forth. The faint illumination grows wider as they get closer.

Everything hurts.

This must be life.

* * *

"Robert! Wake up," a woman demands, shaking her husband awake. "Oh, God," she cries out, clutching her stomach.

The man wakes then, sits up when he sees her. Terror etches his face. "Ivy? Is it the baby?"

"Yes," she says, bent forward, trying to breathe through her pain. "I think something's wrong."

Robert pulls on his shoes, helps her with hers. He steadies her as she stands, runs his fingers through his hair. "I'll wake Petunia – can you make it to the car?"

"Yes – go," she tells him, already half-way down the stairs.

* * *

White light surrounds her. Stainless steel tools and instruments gleam in the florescent light, machines make odd noises, the smell of rubbing alcohol makes her stomach churn. Robert is beside her, holding her hand. The whites of his eyes are red from fighting exhaustion. Ivy isn't even tired anymore, too wound up from nerves to even think of sleep.

The doctor comes in, holds up a black and grey sheet to a box filled with light. He starts saying words like pain and false labor, Braxton Hicks contractions, nothing to be worried about. Ivy exhales, finally. Relief. She wonders how long she has been holding her breath.

"Nothing to be worried about," the doctor says again, his smile wide. "Your babies are just fine."

Ivy and Robert look at one another lovingly, happily, and then they pause. Their faces contort with confusion.

"What? Babies? Babies? With an 's' at the end?" asks Robert, his head whipping around.

"But we're only having one?" Ivy agrees, suddenly losing faith in this doctor and his promises. "If it's a boy, we're calling him Harry, if it's a girl, we're calling her Lily," she tells them, nonsensically. Fear is making her babble and she can't do anything to stop it.

Robert stands up, pulls the doctor to the side, starts telling him he's wrong. They've been to every appointment, done the sonogram already. They know what they're having. It's one baby. Not two. Ivy looks back up at the florescent lights, tries not to cry.

The doctor holds the paper up to the light again, calls in a nurse. They speak in hushed whispers. They leave the room. Another doctor comes in. He stares at the sonogram hard, shakes his head.

"Curious," he says. He doesn't elaborate. "How far along are you?"

"Two months," Ivy whispers, surprised that her voice works at all.

"Curious," the doctor says again, and leaves the room.

* * *

Nurses come in for more tests. Needles, blood tests. Another sonogram.

"What's all this about?" Robert says, asking the questions that Ivy's too afraid of. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, sir," the nurse assures, ambivalent. "The doctor just wants us to run some more tests.

And they do. All night long.

* * *

"You're having twins," the doctor tells them in the early morning hours.

"But –" Robert tries to interject, but the doctor holds up his hand.

"Your early sonogram said one, I know. But these machines make mistakes sometimes, charts can be misread, misplaced. There are plenty of explanations why it could have been overlooked. Modern medicine isn't perfect."

"Well that's reassuring," snarls Robert, but Ivy rests her hand on his, quieting him.

"Are they alright?" she asks.

"They're just fine," the doctor tells her, confidently. "They're healthy. You're healthy. All is well."

She cries, then. Happily.

* * *

Six and a half months later, she meets them for the first time. They're wrapped in blankets, tufts of fluffy hair atop their heads. They bring the oldest one over first, born seven minutes before her sister. She has orange-red hair and her eyes are closed tight. She's wailing at the top of her lungs, struggling in the blankets, screaming.

"Wow, she has a set of pipes on her, this one," Robert calls over the cries, placing the baby in her mother's arms.

"Hello, Lily," Ivy laughs, opening the blanket. Lily's limbs kick and punch but Ivy holds them one by one, counting fingers and toes. "They're all there!" she tells Robert, smiling. "You are perfect, Lily Evans," she tells the wailing child.

Robert takes Lily again, brings her over to the little blonde girl who's sitting silently, unsure of what's coming towards her. "Here, Tuney, I'll help you hold your little sister." The little girl's eyes widen but she holds out her arms. Ivy watches with a content smile.

A nurse walks over holding another bundle. This one isn't crying, isn't screaming. She's completely still as Ivy cradles her, quiet as Ivy counts fingers and toes. Her eyes are already open, drinking in her surroundings. Green eyes, big and bright. They stare at one another for a long while. Her daughter doesn't stir, doesn't make a sound.

"Hello," Ivy whispers. For a fleeting moment, she could almost swear there's recognition in her daughter's eyes, a subtle jolt that says she knows. Ivy holds her finger out, and smiles, astounded, as her daughter reaches out for it. Wraps her tiny fingers around it. Her grip is strong. Confident. Sure. Ivy smiles down at her, feels tears warm her eyes.

"How clever," Ivy says. "How bright you are, Hermione Evans."


	3. chapter i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much! Your kind words keep me writing. x
> 
> author's notes:
> 
> Hello, friends. It's my pleasure to inform you that Fair Fortune has a total of 3,815 views so far. This is amazing. To those who have left me reviews, messages, and asks, I thank you. The outcry of support is heartwarming. To those of you who've asked about my original work – knowing that you're ready to support any original work I put out is just… wow. I am very lucky to have the love of such wonderful readers. It's humbling to know that you will be with me until the very end. Enjoy.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://frwllfrnknstn.tumblr.com/) if you'd like. [Twitter](http://twitter.com/frwllfrnknstn) too, if you've got one. I'll be more active on the latter soon.

* * *

fair fortune  
by  
frwllfrnknstn

* * *

"So things go." – F. Scott Fitzgerald

* * *

Twins.

How alike they are.

How different.

* * *

Lily wails for every reason, for no reason. She screams when she's hungry, when she's tired, when she's gassy, when she's bored. Petunia was the same. Every night, like clockwork, the echoes of crying reach her from down the hall and Ivy makes her way to the nursery. And every night, like clockwork, she finds herself hoping that it might be Hermione who's crying this time.

It never is.

* * *

Family and friends fawn over the twins after their Christening, take turns holding them. Lily is just as Petunia was once. She gets red in the face, struggles out of the grip of strangers. She wants the familiar comfort of her mother or father. They laugh at that, give her to her mother. Ivy holds Lily, rocks her until she's quiet.

"Hermione," they coo. "She's such a good child," they say. "She's so mild. Such a good temperament." Hermione doesn't struggle, doesn't whinge. "She must be a dream."

Ivy smiles, agrees. What else is she supposed to do?

She doesn't tell them that her daughter's silence keeps her awake at night.

* * *

Ivy watches her youngest daughter whenever she has the chance. She checks for signs of – well, she doesn't really know what.

Normalcy, perhaps.

* * *

When Lily sleeps, it's a calm slumber. Her body is still apart from the occasional kick, her face is serene. She even smiles sometimes.

When Hermione is asleep, her face twists like she's in pain. Her head moves from side to side. Some nights she wakes up often.

Some nights she barely sleeps at all.

* * *

Hermione is awake when Ivy rests her elbows on the edge of the crib. Her daughter's hair is a tuft of dark, dark red. Darker than Lily's, lighter than Ivy's. Like Lily, Hermione's eyes are an endless array of greens and golds. But there's something so drastically different behind hers, so unlike her sister's.

Hermione is staring up at her and if she didn't know better, Ivy would think her daughter is just as pensive as she is. She holds out her hand and Hermione watches it come toward her, reaches out to wrap her chubby fingers around Ivy's pinky. If she were like Lily, she would try to grab the wedding ring, touch her painted nails - but she doesn't. She looks away from the glittering rings, away from the bright varnish. She stares up instead, straight into Ivy's eyes.

Fluffy yellow stars and a soft pale moon dangle from the mobile over Hermione's crib. She switches it on and they twirl around in a sluggish circle, spinning to the chimes of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Ivy sings along in quiet tones. Hermione watches her in a curious way.

"Then the traveler in the dark, thanks you for your tiny sparks; he could not see which way to go, if you did not twinkle so."

Hermione looks sad at that. Troubled, even. It's so strange to see a baby's face go through such complex emotions.

Her grip loosens and her little head turns away. Her eyes are shut now.

Ivy is dismissed.

* * *

"Have you heard Hermione cry?"

It's the first time she's asking. She has put it off for so long. Too long.

Robert shrugs with his free arm. Hermione is leaning on his chest, her chin propped up on his shoulder. "I dunno. I'm sure I have. Why?"

"Because I haven't. She doesn't cry, Robert. Ever."

There's surprise in his eyes. "Why do you sound upset? She's a quiet baby, that's all."

"This goes beyond being a quiet baby, Robert." Ivy can feel her eyes welling up. Her voice is full of the emotion she has been burying for months. "I'm afraid there might be something wrong."

A sound cuts the silence.

A beautiful, wondrous sound. She almost doesn't believe it's real, but it is. Robert holds Hermione up, showing off her scrunched red face. She's crying.

"I think she heard you," Robert laughs.

With one hand over her chest, she tries to steady her thumping heart.

Ivy thinks so, too.

* * *

Robert's pale face is looming over her in the dark bedroom. He's shaking her awake.

"What?" she scowls.

"The house is haunted."

"Bugger off," says Ivy, rolling to her other side in an attempt to fall back asleep.

"I'm serious. The house is haunted. I put Lily's bottle down on one side of the room and when I turned around, it was in the crib with her."

"Oh, it helps with the kids? Tell it to start changing diapers."

* * *

The following week, a startled Ivy watches as a fluffy penguin floats off a shelf in the nursery and falls gently into the crib beside Lily.

She yells Robert's name, tells him that they're moving. Immediately.

* * *

They find a house in the Midlands.

A Victorian that's three stories high, white with black trimmings. Two acres in the backyard with trees all around. It's everything they've dreamed of.

They make it a home.

* * *

They sing the ABC's to the girls, try to teach them simple words. Mama, Dada, cat, dog.

When the twins are just a year old, Lily stares up at them as they repeat 'Mama,' 'Dada' again and again. She is moving her lips, trying to mimic what they're saying. She's younger than Petunia was when their first daughter said their first word, but she does it.

"Da!" she finally shouts.

Ivy and Robert cheer and Lily laughs, claps her hands.

"Can you say _Mama_ , Hermione?" Ivy asks her youngest daughter.

Hermione looks away from Lily, shifts her weight to look at her mother.

"Ma," says Hermione, and Robert pumps his fist in the air and cheers.

Ivy smiles, surprised, and claps her hands.

She finds it curious that Hermione didn't even struggle.

* * *

First words, first sentences. Lily is always the first at everything.

Hermione is content to learn from her.

Or, as Ivy sometimes thinks, Hermione is content to wait for her.

* * *

Petunia has left her school things out and Lily has a pair of scissors in her hand. Her fingers are resting between both blades. Ivy rushes across the room at superhuman speed.

And then Ivy stops short, astounded. She watches as Hermione pries the scissors away from Lily.

Hermione catches her staring and lowers her eyes, holds the scissors out for her.

Ivy takes them away.

"Thank you for looking after your sister, Hermione."

It's a complex sentence to say to such a little girl.

She thinks Hermione understands.

* * *

Over the years, odd things happen.

Lights will go on when they know they shut them. Things will be where they didn't put them.

They chalk it up to an old house with old wiring and old minds with old age.

* * *

On Lily and Hermione's third birthday, Robert and Ivy take all three girls to the zoo.

Lily clutches the flipper of her favourite stuffed penguin as she points out the animals. Petunia holds her hand and they take turns pulling each other in different directions. When they get to the actual penguins, Lily squeals with delight, presses both hands up to the glass and jumps excitedly. Hermione stares at the fact chart, runs her eyes over toilsome sentences.

Ivy nudges Robert, points at Hermione. They smile together.

It's always so cute when she pretends she can read.

* * *

When they get home, Lily starts to wail. She cries and cries, devastated because her stuffed penguin is gone.

They search everywhere. The diaper bags, the strollers, under the beds, around the house. It's nowhere to be found.

"Mum," she weeps as Ivy helps them into their pyjamas.

"I'm sorry, Lily. I don't know where he is." Ivy is heartbroken for her daughter. She lays with Lily as her daughter cries herself to sleep. When Lily's breath evens, Ivy stands up, kisses Hermione's forehead on her way out.

"Goodnight, Hermione. I love you."

"I love you too, Mum," she says distractedly, staring out the window, searching the sky.

As she leaves the room, Ivy wonders what she's looking for.

* * *

The next morning, Lily comes bounding into their bedroom, exuberant.

"Mummy! Daddy! It's Penguin!" she jumps on their bed and holds the worn penguin up triumphantly. It's him, dangling eye and threadbare flippers.

"Who found him?" Robert asks with a smile. Lily points to the doorway.

Hermione's standing there, watching her sister with a small smile.

"Where did you find it?" asks Ivy, her brow knit with confusion.

"Under her bed," Hermione answers. She's looking right into her eyes.

Ivy looks away from her daughter, stares at the stuffed penguin.

She knows she checked under that bed three times.

* * *

They go to the park every Friday and Ivy sits on a bench and reads, occasionally looking over the book to make sure the girls are alright. It's a nice park, clean, with more than one slide. Some parents come from towns over just to let their kids play here. The girls usually chase each other around, play tag, dangle from the monkey bars. They can go for hours.

Every Friday on their way home from the park, Ivy stops in the quaint little bookshop a few blocks away. Lily and Petunia usually stay close to her, occasionally ask if they can leave soon. Oftentimes they'll try to tug her in the direction of the children's books.

Hermione is adorable. Sometimes she stands on her tiptoes and tugs a novel out, carries it over to Ivy in a careful way. She'll lift it up and say, "Mum, you should get this one."

Ivy learns to take her advice.

They're always good books.

* * *

Hermione is a quiet child.

She's not one to fuss. Never complains when they're having broccoli for dinner, never whinges when it's time to shut off the tele. She's not hyper, doesn't jump around. Whenever Ivy or Robert are reading anything, be it the newspaper or a thick novel, Hermione climbs up next to them and sits beside them. She peers over their arms or lays against their chest, eyes zooming over the pages.

Occasionally, Ivy finds Hermione staring up at her impatiently.

The look always disappears once Ivy turns the page.

* * *

On their first day of school, Lily cries as Ivy leaves the classroom.

Hermione waves goodbye.

* * *

When the twins are seven years old, their teacher asks to see Ivy and Robert.

They're in the corridor, waiting to be called into the class. Ivy feels like an unruly student when the stern teacher beckons them through the door. They both sit down on hard wooden chairs in front of Mrs. Gilliam's desk, clearing their throats somewhat nervously.

"What's this all about?" asks Robert, after the formalities are over.

"Your daughter, Hermione," says Mrs. Gilliam, crisply.

"What about her?" Ivy questions, icily. There's something about this woman's tone that she doesn't like.

"Hermione is…" says Mrs. Gilliam, trailing off, choosing her words carefully. "I've been teaching for eighteen years and I've never come across a child like her. She doesn't interact with the other children." They blink, unconcerned. Hermione is a quiet girl. There's nothing wrong with that. "I sometimes ask the children to draw what they're thinking about. Here is an example of Lily's." She opens a folder, pulls out various sheets of white paper. Pictures of her family, little stick figures of Lily with both of her sisters, her parents. Smiling suns and little flower shapes. A house with a chimney. One picture has a unicorn, another has a picture of Santa next to a Christmas tree. They go on and on.

Ivy passes the pictures to Robert after she looks at each one. "And?"

"Here's Hermione's," says Mrs. Gilliam, sliding another folder across the desk.

Ivy picks it up, opens it. The first picture is a rainbow. A vibrant arc of colors, swooped from one side of the paper to the other, with clouds on either end.

She thumbs to the next picture. Another rainbow. Exactly the same colors in exactly the same order, clouds the exact shade of bluish grey. The next paper is the same. And the one after that. And the one after that one. It's a folder full of rainbows.

Ivy passes the folder to Robert.

"So," Robert says after careful inspection, closing the folder. "You've brought us here to tell us that our daughter really likes rainbows?"

"There are other things. She won't answer questions in class. She waits for the other children to answer. She writes exactly the way Lily writes. She copies her sister. I sat them on opposite ends of the room, then she started copying off of the boy next to her. I moved her to that desk over there," she points to a lone desk in the corner, way in back of the classroom, segregated from the other desks. Ivy feels rage bubbling up inside of her. "Now she won't work at all."

"Maybe she won't work because you were humiliating her!" Robert says before Ivy has the chance.

"What good was it to sit her by herself? Why make a show out of her for the whole class to see?" Ivy demands.

"I needed to see if she could work on her own and she can't. Mr. and Mrs. Evans," the teacher sighs. "I'm sorry to be the one to say this, but I think your daughter has a learning disability."

They both sit silent, shocked.

When they come to their senses, Robert throws the folder back in Mrs. Gilliam's direction and storms out. Rainbows are still cascading down around Mrs. Gilliam when Ivy gets up.

"It's curious that you think my seven-year-old daughter is the one with the learning disability," she says slowly, venomously, "but you're the one who failed to notice that all of those rainbows are arranged by color of decreasing wavelengths." Ivy follows Robert out and slams the door behind her.

They decide to home-school after that.

* * *

It's the middle of the night and Ivy jolts awake. Distressed sounds travel down the hall. She hurries to the twins' room, finds Hermione whipping from side to side. A trick of the light – she looks like she's rising off the bed.

Ivy shakes her awake. Hermione gasps, her eyes fly open. She's staring at Ivy, trying to catch her breath.

"Tell me what you see when you're sleeping," Ivy begs.

"Everything," her daughter says, and she'll say no more.

Ivy holds her until she falls back to sleep. She holds her long after that too.

* * *

The girls are close.

They're often found huddled in corners together, whispering to one another.

Sometimes Lily holds her hands out and Petunia gasps. Whenever Ivy tries to see what they're whispering about, there's nothing more than a toy or a flower in her daughter's hands. "What's going on?" asks Ivy.

"Nothing," they all say innocently. It was very suspicious, indeed.

* * *

Robert is carrying boxes down from the attic one morning when he slips on the stairs.

All four women in the house see it happen as though it's in slow motion.

Ivy nearly has a heart attack. She watches him slip, hears him shout, sees him fall forward. She thinks he's going to break his neck.

And then, miraculously, he kicks his feet in mid-air a few times, regains his balance, grabs the banister.

"Wow, that was close!" he laughs. He's looking at the staircase in a confused way.

Lily and Petunia are looking at Hermione.

They're smiling.

* * *

Hermione's sleep is still fitful.

Ivy walks past their bedroom one night and sees Hermione tossing and turning. She walks in, tries to calm her, presses a hand to her daughter's forehead.

Her daughter's eyes snap open and her hand wraps around Ivy's wrist. A flash of searing pain shoots up Ivy's arm and she tries to pull away, but it's gone as soon as it came. Hermione's eyes are in focus now, she's awake and alert.

"Are you okay?" her daughter asks, concerned.

"I'm fine," she tells her, rubbing her own wrist. "Must have turned my wrist the wrong way."

Hermione turns away, looks as troubled as Ivy feels.

* * *

Autumn rain is gently tapping on the glass panes. The kitchen window is open and it grants a view of the enormous backyard. The foliage is a bouquet of oranges and yellows and browns and reds as far as the eye can see. The leaves look heavy under the grey skies, weighed down by the weather, swaying in the chilly breeze. The girls are outside, jumping and splashing around in the puddles. Their bright raincoats and black wellies are slick and shining in the dull evening light. Ivy has been watching them as she makes dinner. A grandfather clock chimes from the next room. Robert will be home soon.

She's drying her hands with a dishtowel when she steps out onto the deck. Lily and Petunia are holding hands, giggling as they leap from one puddle to the next. Hermione is sitting under a tree, knees drawn up and a book propped against her legs.

"Five more minutes," Ivy tells them. "It's getting cold and it will be dark soon."

"Aww," says a disappointed Petunia.

"Ten more?" begs Lily. Three of her teeth are missing.

"Alright," Ivy concedes. "Ten more minutes. That's it."

Lily and Petunia shout their hoorays.

"Hermione?" Ivy calls. Hermione looks over at her, guarded. Ivy thinks her daughter already knows what she's going to say. "Why don't you play with your sisters?"

She watches as Hermione folds the corner of a page in her book and slips the paperback into her pocket. Her sisters stop and wait for her excitedly, grab her hands when she gets close enough. "Look, there's a big one!" calls Petunia, and they all jump in unison. Ivy watches with a smile.

The phone rings and she backtracks into the kitchen to answer it. She says hello and props the phone between her cheek and her shoulder as she stirs the beef and Guinness stew.

"I'm back from France," Robert's Aunt Muriel says.

Ivy's shoulders slump dejectedly. "Oh? How was your trip, Aunt Muriel?"

"Everyone was rude and the room service was shit. The pastries weren't all that good, either." Ivy rolls her eyes, tunes her out. She's humming distracted responses as she tastes the stew, adds more salt. Anytime she tries to interject a thought, Muriel presses on.

Robert walks into the kitchen and Ivy nearly jumps.

 _I didn't hear you come in_ , she mouths.

He gives her a peck hello. _Who's that?_

Ivy wraps the phone cord around her neck like a noose and mouths _Muriel_.

He shakes his head, tries to duck out of the room, but Ivy catches him by the belt. "Oh, Aunt Muriel, Robert just walked in," she says, untangling herself hastily. "He wants to hear all about your trip! Hold on!"

She tries to force the phone into his hand but he fights it, uses the baguette he brought home as a sword. He jabs her in the shoulder, then the tit. "Bloody fucking hell," Ivy laughs, grabbing her chest.

Robert takes the phone then. "Hate to run, Aunt Muriel, but Hermione hurt herself. Oh yeah, vocabulary like a sailor, that one," he responds hurriedly and then slams the phone down. Neither of them can stop giggling like teenagers.

"Do it, Hermione!" they hear Petunia plead. "Mum's on the phone with Aunt Muriel. She'll be ages."

Naturally, with both of their interests piqued, they creep toward the door to the deck to see what has their girls sneaking about. They both stick their heads out of the open door, one on top of the other in a comical way, waiting to uncover the mystery of what their daughters are up to.

Robert lets go of the baguette. It hits the wooden floor with a thud. Ivy is wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

Leaves are hovering in mid-air. Then, astoundingly, they fold in on themselves. They twist and contort, burst to life. They've sprouted wings. They've become butterflies. Petunia and Lily laugh, delighted, as the butterflies flutter around them, kiss their noses and cheeks. Hermione is smiling, watching her sisters bask in this… this supernatural thing.

"What the bloody hell am I seeing right now?" asks Robert.

Hermione's smile falls and with it go the butterflies. They're nothing but leaves on the ground again.

All the girls look caught.

"Somebody explain. Now," says Ivy.

Petunia and Lily look to Hermione.

Her youngest daughter sighs.

"Alright," she says in a tired way. "But let's go inside first."

* * *

_Magic_.

Lily can make flowers bloom, make things move. Their middle child demonstrates. Flowers in the vase spring back to life. The vase slides from side to side. They look to their youngest child.

"What can you do, Hermione? Apart from the butterflies?" Ivy asks.

But Hermione won't say.

* * *

"I hope I'll see how powerful you are one day," Ivy tells her late that night, after Lily has fallen asleep. She's smiling down at Hermione, running her fingers through her daughter's hair. Hermione doesn't say anything. She closes her eyes, turns her head away.

Ivy leaves her alone, closes the door behind her.

Hermione finally responds. It's faint through the door. Ivy knows she isn't meant to hear it.

"I hope you never do."


	4. chapter ii

**a message to the readers:**

Hello, dear friends. I hope you're well.

Let me take a moment to say –– the outcry of love and support for the last chapter was amazing. Almost a hundred and fifty reviews on that chapter alone! Incredible. Honestly, you all are the reason I came back, and your kind words have left me speechless and humbled.

I thank you for the well-wishes sent to my tumblr for my mother.

And to those of you who sent me those beautiful anons from all over the world, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. What a lovely treat they were to see!

* * *

**christmas giveaway:**

This Christmas, I'll be sending a Christmas package to one lucky follower on tumblr. Nothing too crazy – just a few of my favorite things (soap, lotion, candle, books, etc). If you're over 18 and would like to participate in the raffle, please check my tumblr on _**December 1**_ _ **st**_ for details.

* * *

**author's note:**

If you're interested in seeing **sneak peeks from upcoming chapters of Fair Fortune** , exclusive snippets of my writing, and my daily adventures, you can follow me on instagram at _sweetasylums_. I will happily accept your follow request. I'll follow back if you let me know your handle over there! I would enjoy connecting with my readers more.

* * *

**disclaimer:**

Quotes in Segment #24 are from _House of Usher_.

* * *

**chapter warning:**

**This chapter contains mature and triggering content**. This includes torture, psychological abuse and some squicky Greyback scenes of a sexually abusive nature. It's not graphic or exploitative but it's there. Read with caution. If any of the aforementioned triggers you, please skip the fifth section of this chapter (the segment that begins with "We found it!" and ends with "as she lies."). Also contains graphic depictions of gore, violence, and death.

* * *

**This chapter is written in a non-linear way. If you find it jarring –** _**good** _ **. That's the point. Now you know how Hermione feels. :D**

* * *

This chapter was beta'd by [ **aaaaaahhhhhh**. ] Thanks, A!

* * *

As always - if you reach the end of this chapter, please review.

* * *

Enjoy. xo

* * *

  
**fair fortune**  
by  
sweetasylums

* * *

"When I touch the water;  
they tell me I could be  
set free."  
– The Oh Hellos

* * *

Such a young mind.

So small. So fragile.

* * *

The past, the present. They come in flashes.

They collide.

* * *

Memories flood her dreams.

She's running through the trees, leaping over logs, gasping in the stinging, freezing air.

Hooded figures and silver masks are in her periphery. Twigs snap behind her as they pursue her.

"Why are they chasing us like this?" someone whispers.

She doesn't recognize the voice.

* * *

"I'm dying," he tells her. Fawkes lets out a low lament.

She stares at him in shock.

"Pardon, Sir?"

"Harry will need you when I'm gone. Do not abandon him. No matter what."

The candles flicker; threaten to go out.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asks.

"Your mind is the last weapon he'll have. It's the only thing that will keep him alive."

She mulls this over; careful. Guarded. "And if something happens to me?"

He rests his elbows on his desk, steeples his fingers. A few are shriveled, blackened. Dead.

"Then you'd fail me. You'd fail Harry. You'd fail everyone."

_Failure._

_Well played, Headmaster._

* * *

"We found it – we found it – PLEASE!"

How pathetic she has become, she thinks. Look at what they've turned her into. She's what they've always said she was – weak. Inferior. Trembling from the curse in a puddle of her own urine. She's angry at them. Angry at herself. She's not the hero of this story.

The marble floor feels like ice. Someone's pressing her face to it. She's not sure what hurts more – the pressure on it or the temperature of it.

Greyback's hands are wandering. His odor is repulsive, acrid like musk. His face is pressed to hers, his mouth is open. Something is touching her cheek, warm and wet. His breath is tinged with a rotten smell, something metallic. Blood. He's taunting her and Bellatrix is letting it happen, enjoying her suffering.

She used to think she wasn't capable of violence, of killing. But with the wolf on top of her and Bellatrix in front of her, she feels something dark and dangerous in her belly. This is hatred, pure and thick and black, infecting her like a sickness. She wants to kill them. She'll do it. She stares at Bellatrix defiantly, ignores the interrogation, detaches from her body. She just glares and thinks, _I'm going to fucking kill you both_.

"Hermione!" Ron's voice calls from somewhere below. "Hermione!"

There's a hand between her legs and she grits her teeth. His hands are filthy, she saw the dirt caked beneath his nails. He's whispering things to her but she stares ahead, retreats into her head. She can't hear him anymore. Her eyes are far away, she's somewhere else. He's digging his claws into her flesh but she doesn't feel it.

"Hermione!" she hears Ron shout. "Hermione," he screams, and she thinks he means her. But Hermione's gone, that's not her. She's not sure it ever was. She's just a changeling on a shovel, being held over a fire.

"Crucio!"

She sees nothing but red light for a minute, two, three? The curse sears like fire. It seeps through her veins, makes her blood boil and her skin blister. The crimson fades and she touches her face – it's smooth and soft.

But, how? She felt it melt.

"Crucio!"

Her muscles tighten, coil up like springs. The bones in her chest are breaking, she can feel them snap. They're twisting and contorting, puncturing her organs like jagged shards of glass. A burning warmth floods her insides and she knows she's bleeding out, she's going to die here on this floor.

It's astounding when the curse stops and there's no blood on the marble, no wounds to be seen.

"Tell the truth, _tell the_ _truth_!"

The brightest witch of her age, they've called her. And here she is, scrambling for something to say, some excuse to give. Why was she so crippled by fear? Why was she weak? How could she let this happen to her, to Harry? She tries to gasp a response – but Bellatrix raises her wand and – _oh god, please, no_.

The red light envelopes her again. _Just kill me, god, just kill me and get it over with, I don't want this anymore_. Her flesh is pulled from her bones, muscles and sinew are being torn. A serrated knife is hacking away the meat of her, sawing back and forth, making a meal out of her. She doesn't have to open her eyes to know her innards are spilling out.

"Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"

Greyback holds her down again and she feels the blade of the knife – real, this time – silver and gleaming like the strands in Bellatrix's greying hair. Blood is trickling across her skin and Bellatrix's hair is in her face. It smells like jasmine.

She brings her teeth down around it, carefully, grinds her incisors. Tiny strands break off in her mouth as Bellatrix pierces her. The dagger is cursed – she can tell by the blackened skin singed around the gaping wounds. Mudblood, it spells. She's branded forever now.

"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! _CRUCIO_!"

This one splits her skull. White matter is oozing out of the cracks. _Accio, Brain!_ she thinks, and nearly laughs – and _oh god, no_ , she's slipping. This is how Frank and Alice lost their mind, she realizes. They detached. They let go. She could, too.

But she remembers that hatred in her, that darkness within her that only Dumbledore understood. She grasps hold of it, sinks her fingers into it, won't let it go.

"How did you get into my vault?" Bellatrix screams. "Did that dirty goblin in the cellar help you?"

"We only met him tonight!" she shouts.

Bellatrix's hair feels sharp under her tongue as she lies.

* * *

She wakes, coughing dryly, sweat beaded on her forehead.

Lily is standing beside her. She's tiny and unsure, clutching her penguin tightly.

"Hermione," she whispers. "I had a bad dream."

"So did I," Hermione tells her. She lifts her blanket, lets Lily climb beneath.

"I dreamed there was a monster under my bed," her sister says, quietly. She wipes her tears away and wraps her arms around Hermione for comfort, for safety. Her eyes are already drooping shut. "What was your bad dream about?"

Hermione rests her chin atop Lily's head and strokes her burnt orange hair.

After a long while, her sister's breaths even out and sleep takes her.

The moonlight through the trees paints shadows on the wall. She's used to them now, these shadows. They greet her in these dark, early morning hours. They move and sway with each breeze; keep her company throughout the night. They fall still when she speaks, silhouettes like claws hover over her.

"I dreamt of monsters, too," she tells them.

The wind blows and the shadows nod.

And they keep her secrets, as all good friends do.

* * *

Halloween is close enough that she can feel it in the air. The cool, damp breeze and the falling, crisp leaves spiral above them as they run around the park.

Her heart is beating wildly in her chest as Petunia chases her; she's out of breath, wants to stop – but she keeps pushing. She likes to test her limits.

Lily's hanging upside-down from the jungle gym. Her legs are looped over a long metal bar, locked at the knees, and her hair is flowing down like a waterfall, twined with leaves of oranges and reds.

"I'm going to get you, Hermione!" Petunia laughs and Hermione ducks under the slide.

She comes face to face with a boy whose eyes are as dark as his hair.

He has been here before; always keeps to himself. She wonders why he's hiding here.

"Hello," she says.

"Hello," he says back.

There's a smell about him – stale like cigarettes and unwashed clothes. He's wearing an old button-down blouse – _a woman's?_ – five sizes too big. It's layered beneath an enormous, moth-eaten peacoat. His lips are thin and his hair falls to his chin, unkempt. But what stands out the most about him is his nose. It's long and hooked; unique and familiar.

_Oh my god._

She must look stunned – anxiety pools in his jet black eyes.

"Gotcha!" her sister shouts, grabbing her back excitedly.

She jumps, wheels around.

By the time she looks back, the boy is gone.

* * *

The shack groans beneath the weight of them.

They're slipping on blood as they scramble toward him. It's his; it's gushing from the open wound on his neck with each beat of his heart. She can see inside him, the meat and bones. His flesh is shredded like he's nothing more than a cow on a slab.

Swirling silver tears leak from his eyes. His teeth are stained with a black-ish red as he struggles to speak.

"Take . . . it . . . take . . . it . . ." His words are gurgled. He's choking on his own blood. Harry looks bewildered – too stunned to process what's happening. Hermione conjures a flask for him, thrusts it into his hands.

"Look . . . at . . . me . . ."

Harry grants him his last wish, looks down at him obligingly. Curious, how those black eyes do not travel over Harry's face.

His eyes drift closed and he exhales one last time, long and laboured.

Harry looks at her, confused by his own sympathy.

His eyes are wide, bright and green.

And here in this dream, this memory; she begins to understand.

* * *

The following week, she searches for him. Under the slide, behind benches. He isn't there.

It's not until they're walking home that she sees him – ducking behind a tree, just outside the park.

She stares, waits for him to pop his head out from behind it.

When he finally does, she waves.

His face goes red and takes off down the street, turns the corner without looking back.

"Who was that?" her mother asks, curiously.

"Someone I used to know."

"From school?" Ivy wonders.

"Yes."

It's not a lie, really.

* * *

When they get home, Lily runs to the tele, turns it on. There are noises in the kitchen. Ivy is moving pots and pans around – making dinner, probably. Lily sits crossed-legged on the floor while Petunia fiddles with one of the long antennas until the static clears and a brightly coloured rabbit dances on the screen. Petunia sits beside Lily on the carpet – they're picturesque in their flowered shirts, the fading sunlight illuminating their fair hair. They look like a vintage photograph.

"Who wants to bake?" Ivy asks, poking her head into the living room.

Both girls turn around, Lily points to the screen. "But mum, there's a marathon on. Can we do it later?" In unison, their heads turn back to the show.

They're too young to notice the disappointment on Ivy's face.

"Mum?" says Hermione. After all these years, the title still feels foreign on her tongue. Ivy looks to her, curiously. "I'll bake with you."

Ivy's face lights up as Hermione follows her into the kitchen.

Silver bowls and wooden spoons are sprawled over the island counter. A big bag of flour and a giant glass jar of chocolate chips tower over Hermione as she climbs up onto a tall stool, sits on her knees so she can reach everything. It is a familiar feeling, a fleeting memory of her own childhood. She thinks of her mother, her real mother – with her soft chestnut hair and gentle brown eyes. Something twinges inside of her; a longing for home.

"I'm sure you'd rather be watching cartoons with your sisters," Ivy says, fondly, breaking her reverie. "Thanks for humouring your old mum."

"You're not old," Hermione corrects, very seriously. Ivy smiles wider.

"Thank you, Hermione."

"You're welcome."

They stare at one another in silence after that, both shifting awkwardly. It's always clear in these moments that they don't have much to say to each other. Conversation with Ivy has never flowed naturally, not the way it does between Ivy and her other daughters. Ivy is the one around them the most, the one who picks up on all the things that Robert doesn't.

It has always been a struggle for Hermione to be normal, to not act strange. In doing so, perhaps, she thinks she made herself even more of an outcast.

"Well . . . shall we?" Hermione asks, eyebrows raised, desperate to break the silence.

"Yes!" Ivy replies, accepting the bait with a clap of her hands.

Together, they measure the ingredients, and Ivy stirs the mixture as Hermione slowly drops the dry ingredients in, little by little. They don't speak much except for a _grab that spoon_ or _can you get the towel over there_ , but it's a pleasant quiet between them as they work.

"Are you excited for cake?" Ivy asks as they pour the batter into the pans.

"Yes." _Who doesn't love cake?_ Hermione sets the timer after Ivy shuts the oven door.

"Are you excited for Halloween?" Ivy asks, making her way across the kitchen to where Hermione is seated.

"Yes," Hermione answers, stirring the unused flour absentmindedly. She knows it's what she should say; what all kids would say. She glances toward the living room, sees Lily still staring up at her cartoons. She wonders, macabrely, what Lily did that fateful Halloween, before the end. And Petunia next to her, who found Harry on her doorstep that night – Hermione wonders what went through her mind. Was she sad? Angry? Watching them now, it's strange to think that their sisterly bond was severed. There they sit, side by side, leaning against one another while they watch the tele.

"Hermione?"

 _Oh_. Ivy was still talking to her. "Hmm?"

"I asked if you were excited to pick your costume."

All of these questions – _are you excited for this, excited for that_. She gets it, she does. Ivy is trying to start a dialogue with her, trying to get Hermione enthusiastic about something. They would talk to Harry the same way, whenever he was struggling with his depression. Now, on the receiving end of it, she realizes that this barrage of questions only makes the recipient hyper-aware of how much they don't fit in. Harry had handled it rather gracefully in his later years. How had he done it?

 _Oh, yes_. That's right.

" _I_ was wondering if you were excited for the snowstorm," Hermione counters, smiling wide.

"Snowstorm?" Ivy asks, confused. She doesn't notice the bag of flour rising up over her head.

Ivy lets out a loud, surprised sound as the bag tips and the flour cascades down over her. She is covered in white powder and, ghostly, she stares at Hermione in shock. "I can't believe you just did that."

For a few moments, Hermione is worried that Ivy is mad; that this joke has gone all wrong.

But then, with a laugh, Ivy repeats, " _I can't believe you just did that_!" and she grabs the floating bag, hurls the contents at Hermione. She screams and clambers down off the chair, tries to evade the flour but it's no use – it's everywhere. The kitchen looks like it's up in smoke.

"Well, well, well," a deep voice calls from the doorway. The sound makes them both freeze.

Robert's there, arms crossed over his chest, looking around the kitchen with a shake of his head. It's then Hermione sees the state of utter disrepair she and Ivy are in, both look like they dove headfirst into a pool of white paint and laid out to dry.

"I'm all for recreational drug use," he says, solemnly, his hands motioning to the white powder floating stagnant in the air, "but I think Hermione's a little young for all this, don't you think?"

A torpedo of whipped cream hits him right in the face.

It's war after that.

* * *

Hours later, after they've bathed and changed, Hermione helps clean up.

"This was nice," Ivy says, smiling, pushing a mop around.

She doesn't mean cleaning, she means the evening as a whole.

"Yes," Hermione agrees, looking up from her broom, glancing over at Ivy – at her _mother_.

"Yes, it was."

* * *

"And my parents?" she asks him. "They'll be hunted. Tortured. Killed."

"Not if they're hidden."

"They won't go along with it. They'll want to be with me. They'll never agree."

"Then," he pauses, tiredly. "Perhaps an executive decision must be made."

But surely he can't mean…?

" _Obliviation_?" She's ashamed of herself for knowing what he's referring to. Ashamed that she had already thought of it, long before this conversation.

The Headmaster smiles unhappily, resolutely. "For people like you and I, Hermione – sometimes the end justifies the means."

* * *

They've lost track of the days.

It's winter; snowing and cold. The flesh beneath her fingernails is a constant shade of purple-blue.

The streets are alight with decorations, reds and golds, glimmering lights. Godric's Hollow looks like a fairy tale come to life.

They're cloaked in darkness, hidden from the warm center of the desolate town. They're amongst the graves. They're right where they belong, she thinks. They won't survive this war.

 _No_ , that's the horcrux talking. It has poisoned her mind, planted a sack of venom at the base of her skull. Even when her neck is free of the cursed locket, her shoulders are heavy from the ever-present plague of despair. She wonders if the damage is permanent.

"Harry, here."

The stone is old – eighty years? A hundred?

His hastened footsteps kick and spray snow over her own boots.

"Is it –– ?"

"No, but look."

 _Kendra Dumbledore_ , it reads. _And Her Daughter, Ariana._

_Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also._

* * *

"What is that?"

"Payment," is all the stranger says. "Go, Hermione. I'll hold him off."

* * *

When she wakes, she presses her warm forehead to the cool glass of the window.

The pane fogs as she exhales, blurs the world beyond.

 _Who are you?_ she scrawls with her finger.

The condensation fades and so does she, drifting into and out of consciousness.

* * *

"Are you sure he never mentioned –– ?"

"No," he says curtly. "Let's keep looking."

Her nostrils flare and a cloud of steam escapes her mouth in an irritated way.

Resentment is thick in the air. Harry is angry with his departed mentor. Angry for the secrets he kept.

 _How he'd hate her if he knew_.

* * *

"Are you afraid, Sir?"

He lets the question hang in the air. "To die, you mean?"

She gives a curt nod.

"No," he says. "When you're as old and tired as I am, a long sleep is welcomed. The weary will envy me."

She likes the sound of that lie.

* * *

The mark of the Deathly Hallows is crudely carved in the Peverell tomb and her heart leaps – another clue!

Harry brushes it off. His impatience with her is infuriating. He wants all the answers to his questions but doesn't want to work to solve the puzzles – that's why _she's_ there. She's his own personal and portable security system, equipped with an encyclopedia.

Where would he be if she had left with Ron?

He would already be dead, no doubt; crucified publicly as a warning to all who tried to defy the Dark Lord.

_No._

_The Dark Lord?_

What is wrong with her?

Something tingles beneath the skin of her scalp. The horcrux has festered within her skull, eats away at her intellect. But there's nothing stronger than her mind. It's the last and best weapon Harry has.

_Fuck off, Tom._

She hears a hiss after she thinks it – a sound so real and so loud that she looks around the cemetery. There's nothing there, nobody to be seen.

And then she spots it.

_The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death._

"Harry, they're here," she calls out sharply. "Right here."

* * *

The days are long and she can't remember not feeling tired. It's all she knows now.

"Do it, Hermione!" Lily whispers through the gaps in her teeth.

Petunia nods along, "Nobody's watching."

She looks around and indeed, the promise of rain has made the park a desolate place.

A branch in the bush beside them twitches curiously.

That's what convinces her, in the end.

A damp leaf flutters up from the ground and lands in her hand. It folds and unfolds.

And suddenly, a coppery red butterfly is flapping its wings from the safety of her palm.

"I knew it!" someone shouts. It startles Lily and Petunia so much that they take a few steps back. They look around, stare at Hermione, asking unspoken questions – _are we in trouble? Are we caught?_

"I knew it!" the little boy repeats. He's looking at Hermione frantically, his excitement bursting from beneath his skin. "You're a witch!"

"Don't call my sister that!" shouts Lily, angrily.

"It's alright," Hermione says. "It's not a bad word – not the way he means it. Right?"

The boy agrees, nodding vigorously.

"Hermione," Petunia says, sharply. "I know him. He lives on Spinner's End."

Ah, Spinner's End – the part of the neighborhood which the girls were forbidden to venture near. Spinner's End, miles off, with its weathered old brick houses in strict rows like a prison block. A dreary neighborhood where people pick at their skin in plain view and loom on the corners late at night.

"What's your name?" Hermione asks – but she already knows the answer.

"Severus," he says, quietly, licking his chapped lips nervously.

"Severus Snape."

* * *

How odd it is when you realize the person you've admired for so long now considers you an equal. Even more strange when you discover a darkness in them; one you recognize in yourself as well.

"Something has been bothering me about the prophecy," she confesses, quietly. It's alarming how calmly she says it, how monotonous her voice stays. " _Neither can live while the other survives_."

He doesn't correct her, doesn't reassure her that things will be fine. He merely nods, solemnly.

She knows it, then.

Harry is going to die. _He must die_. All this time – he has been kept alive to be a sacrifice.

"And if he asks me?" she says, feeling sick. "Am I supposed to lie?"

They stare at one another.

He looks different now; brittle and cold – or maybe she's finally seeing the flaws in the design.

"Sometimes a lie can be a kindness."

His half-moon spectacles are crooked.

* * *

"What will I do after the war?" Harry asks late one night, after the bluebell flames have since burned out.

For a long while after, the only sound between them is the wind singing through the trees.

"Live," she says. "After the war, you'll live." She lies so easily she almost believes it herself.

Harry looks at her in a strange way.

* * *

Severus is awkward. He doesn't know what to do when people are nice to him. Kindness and generosity are things that are foreign to him; she can tell by the way he looks bewildered whenever Hermione strikes up a conversation with him or invites him to help himself to cookies or juice.

They've become an unusual set of friends over these long weeks. The kinship she feels is misplaced, she knows this. Severus is her first palpable link to her old life, the first spark of reassurance. Because sometimes, whilst stuck in the very dark places inside of her mind, she wonders if she dreamed up that other life – if she's mad.

"You seem tired," Severus tells her, munching on a cookie. He holds one out for her from the big platter on the sitting room table.

She smiles, takes it. "I always am."

* * *

"Lily's magic, too," Hermione tells him one afternoon. They're laying side by side beneath the trees, looking up at the falling leaves swirling down. "She's like me."

She closes her eyes and concentrates. The leaves burst into little birds, burnt oranges and fiery reds, flittering around them.

He smiles; a rarity. "She's not like you at all."

* * *

A storm is whipping against the windows and the Evans' family are all crammed onto the sofa beneath a long, soft blanket. Horror movie marathons have been on the tele all night and it's past bedtime, but Hermione is still up, eating big handfuls of warm salted popcorn that Ivy popped over the stove. Lily and Petunia have long since fallen asleep, leaning on one another.

"You have to go to bed after this one," Robert whispers and Hermione nods.

It's comfortable here, on this sofa, in this room, with this family – her new family. The glow of the television illuminates their faces and Hermione is watching Lily's sleeping face – it's the first time she notices that she and Harry share a nose along with eyes. Even asleep, the eyes are the same shape, same thick lashes. She thinks of Harry with his eyes shut in Hagrid's arms, dead for all they knew.

And Lily is beautiful, even in youth. She sees her then, standing in water, telling her that Harry's soul was lost. Or was it still lost? Does it work like that? Is his soul still drowning in darkness?

The calm moment is suddenly surreal. Her heart skips an anxious beat and Hermione presses her palm to her chest.

 _Is there no end to your horrors?_ a voice from the tele asks.

_No. None whatever –– for they are not mine alone._

"I'm going to bed," she says, feeling sick. She needs to get up, get away.

_Mere passage from the flesh cannot undo centuries of evil._

"Goodnight," her parents say, curiously, but she's halfway up the stairs already.

The television echoes from down below.

_There can be no peace without penalty._

* * *

A hiss penetrates the silence again.

"Harry, stop."

She looks around, tries to force her eyes to see through the thick black night. There's a figure silhouetted in the snow. She wonders if she's imagining it – if it's the Horcrux's latest trick.

"What's wrong?"

Someone's crouching, trying to stay hidden. Watching them.

"There's someone there. Someone watching us. I can tell. They're over by the bushes."

Harry stares, holding her as tightly as she holds onto him. The feeling is comforting – and she's reminded why she stayed, why she loves him so. He listens when she's concerned. It's Hermione he calls when there's trouble, it's her advice he seeks. He looks to her to guide him, to reassure him.

They hold each other close as they leave, leaning on the other as they walk the cobblestone path.

* * *

They're outside the tent, bracing the bitter cold wind, standing shoulder to shoulder. Trees surround them from all angles. The clearing she found is barely big enough to fit the tent.

The screaming has been going on for the last few minutes. She can't tell what direction it's coming from.

"Is it real?" he whispers, the locket looks heavy on his chest. The chain has left red lines around his neck. "Do you hear it?"

She knows it's real; knows there's someone out there suffering. Someone who wasn't as skilled as she, someone who tried to hide and failed. Harry wants to help; so eager to save everyone. Even if it means getting himself killed in the process.

"I don't hear anything, Harry. It's the horcrux."

Eventually the screaming stops and she knows someone's dead because of her. Somebody out there won't ever wake up again. And, she thinks:

 _You're welcome_.

* * *

Something's not right. Something's wrong.

She's on edge all the time; always feeling sick, exhausted.

Lack of sleep, she thinks.

She wonders if Harry ever felt this way.

The kitchen light flickers overhead, makes them all look up. It stops as soon as it starts.

"Can Severus come over later?" Hermione asks her parents absentmindedly.

"Hermione, he has come over every day for two weeks. We're going to London today, just the family."

Anxiety springs in her stomach. "Can he come?"

"No," says Ivy, placing the dishes in the cupboards.

"But I already told him he could."

"So un-tell him."

One by one, the lightbulbs overhead explode. The five of them let out cries as sharp pieces rain down on top of them. Hermione puts her arms around her sisters necks, pulls their faces close to her chest to protect their heads. Milk spatters over the edge of their bowls as glass plops down into their breakfast.

"What the bloody hell?" Robert shouts when it's over. "Is everyone alright?"

"I'm fine," Hermione says.

"Mum," Lily's crying, holding out her hand. There's some blood – a little piece of glass is sticking out of her finger.

Petunia sticks out her left arm, she has a gash near the fold of her elbow. She isn't crying but she's bleeding more heavily than Lily is.

"Oh, Robert, they're going to need stitches."

"I'll take them," he says, jumping up to get his car keys. "Call the electrician," Robert tells her as he helps the girls out the door.

The door slams shut and Ivy turns around.

"Did you do that?" she asks, angrily.

Hermione blinks – Ivy has never spoken to her in that tone before.

She looks down at the shattered glass, confused.

"Maybe. I think I may have . . ." she admits, unsure.

" _You think you may have_? Well, _I_ think you could have seriously hurt your sisters! _I_ think you should go to your room, young lady!"

"I'm sorry," she says, overwhelmed, "I didn't mean to do it."

Ivy's face falls. Hermione doesn't want her sympathy. She heads upstairs, heart racing, beating in her throat.

"Hermione, wait. I'm sorry."

She kicks the door shut behind her and the lock clicks.

Ivy knocks, tries to plead with Hermione to open the door.

She gives up, eventually, leaves her alone.

* * *

A few hours later, the doorbell rings. Ivy's voice echoes up the stairs. _I'm sorry, Severus. Hermione can't come out to play today._

She looks out her window after she hears the front door close, sees Severus walking away down the path. He looks up at her and stops, waves.

But she turns away and doesn't look back.

* * *

Night falls soon after. Her sisters are back and from the sound of it they're fine, bouncing around downstairs and laughing.

Frost fogs over the window.

 _Who are you?_ it reads.

She tries to answer but she can't decide.

Sleep creeps over her like death.

* * *

_The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore._

Hermione finds it on Bathilda's tea table.

She flips through it – sees the symbol again. She halts on another page and the two names from the grave are peppered throughout it. _Kendra. Ariana._

She shoves the book in her purse and looks around. Harry has vanished.

"Harry?" she calls out down the corridor.

Silence.

A gnawing feeling bites at her insides. Something's wrong.

She takes the stairs by threes.

She finds Bathilda on the floor, split open and decaying like ruptured, rotten fruit.

Nagini is so large she takes up half the room. The door slams shut – the way out is blocked. Hermione hurls a killing curse at the reptile but there's a protective ward on her – some type of magic that Hermione doesn't recognize. The curse rebounds and Hermione throws up a shield, angles it so the green light ricochets and smashes the window.

Something twists around her ankle and she hits the floor – Nagini's blood red eyes are just above her and her mouth is open, fangs lunging towards Hermione's jugular. Through sheer willpower, Hermione holds the neck of the snake and squeezes as hard as she can, running incantations through her head.

Her hands glow as she tightens her grip. Nagini hisses wildly and recoils.

"He's coming!" she hears Harry shout. " _Hermione, he's coming_!"

She clambers up, gripping the heavy quilt to help her stand, and then Harry has her arm. He's pulling her across the bed; his strength surprises her.

They jump up on the bed, sliding on broken glass.

It happens fast.

Harry takes a running leap toward the window, still holding her hand tightly – she tries to slacken her own grip but Harry won't let her go. The snake lunges at them and she hears footsteps in the corridor. Her heart drops down to her stomach. She knows, intuitively, who it is.

"Confringo!" she screams, because Harry's not going yet – she won't let him die here.

The curse reverberates around the room and mirrors smash, wardrobes explode – the violence of it keeps Nagini at bay long enough for them to jump from the bed to the wardrobe, and straight out the open window. Hermione screams as the door flies open behind them.

Harry yells out like he's wounded.

As they fall, she sees him – Voldemort. He's throwing himself out of the window, too. His face is so deformed he looks masked, but she can see the utter rage in his blood red eyes. He points his wand at them but she's faster – she pulls Harry to her, screams out, teeth bared like an animal – and disapparates.

* * *

A dark mark is suspended above them, vibrant green and glittering. It's almost beautiful.

The old wizard lay broken on the floor, his dead body is bathed in green light.

Hermione watches on, spattered with blood that's not her own.

The constellation of skull and snake is reflected in his glasses. Just behind it lay his eyes, closed and relaxed in a slumber from which he won't wake.

He was telling the truth, after all.

She does envy him.

* * *

Harry falls still.

Black cloaks and scabbed hands hover over her. They drink her in like water.

"No," she cries. "Not this. Not like this."

Fabric twists around her, covers her face. She tries to inhale but she sucks in grimy wool.

A wave of dementors crash down on top of her, a sea of darkness envelops her. She can't breathe.

She's drowning.

* * *

She's gasping for air.

There's a pounding at the door, she can see it bouncing on its hinges as someone fights to get inside.

The door tears off the frame, drops down with a thud.

Somebody's screaming.

It's her, she realizes, and _oh god_ – she's floating. She's almost touching the ceiling.

She hears shouting but she's afraid to look down at the door, afraid of what horror will be waiting there for her.

 _It's not real,_ she thinks. _This is a nightmare._

The room shakes.

 _Wake up,_ she thinks. _Wake up._

Panic makes her body thrum, her heart is thumping in her ears.

Someone's grabbing at her, pulling at her.

The screaming reaches a fever pitch.

The sound that follows is soul shattering – a booming crash all around her. It's so loud it hurts.

All she can hear after it is a rushing sound like water and a dull ringing somewhere far away.

Glass sprays throughout the room – _her bedroom_ , she realizes with a start.

Robert is below her, pulling her down from the ceiling, throwing his body over her to protect her from the glass. Ivy has her other daughters by the arms, yanks them into the hallway and disappears.

Her father is talking but she can't hear him. He holds both sides of her face, makes her focus. She can make out what he's saying by the familiar movement of his lips.

_Are you alright?_

She nods, fights her way free of his arms. He lets her go. She can hear something now, stifled – muffled crying, her mother talking.

"Are you all alright?" Robert shouts.

"Yes, we're fine," Ivy calls. "They're just startled. Everything is broken out here – downstairs too, I think."

The mirror to the vanity is destroyed and the glass panes are shattered too. She runs to the window, feels pain searing across the bottom of her feet from the shards. A feeling of dread consumes her.

When she looks out, she yells.

Neighbors are coming out of their houses in pajamas and robes, shaking and shocked.

She staggers backward, unbelieving. But the truth is there; it's littering the streets.

It's not just their house that's destroyed. It's the house next to theirs. And the house next to that one. And the house next to that one. For as far as she can see, windows are gone, streetlights are out – the remnants of it all is peppering the roads, glittering in the moonlight.

* * *

Afterward, she feels warm yet chilled to the core. It's that feeling one may get after weeping – after those long, sobbing cries that exhausts the body, leaves it feeling feverish and sick with relief from the release of whatever sadness festered within. Her parents do not yell, they do not scream. They're just happy everyone's alright. They make her sit on the couch with her sisters.

Petunia crawls over the sofa with a blanket, wraps it around Hermione's shoulders.

Lily puts her penguin in Hermione's arms. "He'll make you feel better," she swears, and it does.

It does.

* * *

They're not downstairs ten minutes before a crack breaks the settled silence.

The sound is familiar. It makes her stomach drop.

Ivy screams and Robert brandishes his broom like a weapon.

Hermione looks up and her mouth goes dry.

There are strangers in the house.


	5. chapter iii

**author's notes:**

This story is not and will never be abandoned, so no need to worry. Life got crazy. Thanks for your patience.

This chapter is short; the ending needed to be savored.

The next chapter is longer. Check back over this week or subscribe to the story because said chapter is going up soon. Review replies will continue with this chapter.

Posting without a beta for now because I just got home and wanted to get it up as promised.

Happy Valentine's Day, friends. I've missed you.

**ToT fans, I think you'll enjoy this.**

* * *

**fair fortune**

  


by

  


sweetasylums

* * *

"Hello, my old heart,

  


how have you been?

  


Are you still there inside my chest?"

  


\- The Oh Hellos

* * *

"Relax."

It's a command, not a request.

The man that's speaking has his wand raised. It's pointed at her father's chest.

In the man's defense, her father has already swung the heavy broom at the man's head. Twice.

"Sir, it's alright. I know this is startling to you, but we're not here to hurt you."

Robert swings the broom again; the handle nearly makes contact with one of the intruders' face.

"Just stun him!" another man shouts. "He's too stubborn to hear reason!"

"Lower your wands," Hermione interjects. "Dad, put the broom down."

Everyone in the room turns to her, confused for their own reasons. One of the men, tall with dark eyes, regards her with increasing interest. Robert's knuckles are white from clutching his makeshift weapon.

"It's okay, Dad. They're not dangerous."

And they aren't - not now, at least.

"They're the A.M.R.S."

* * *

"Accidental Magic Reversal Squad?" her father murmurs, watching the scene on the street unfold from their shattered bay window. "I guess that's… just how it sounds?"

"Yes," she says, shifting her gaze to glance up at her father. He looks down at her in turn. "Wizards aren't very subtle."

"Squad, though? They couldn't think of a better name?" he jokes.

"They probably thought it sounded cool," she tells him with a smile.

Exhaustion is pulsing through her. She hasn't felt this spent since Malfoy Manor. Her knees are shaking from the strain of standing.

Footsteps wander back and forth upstairs; her mother is putting Petunia and Lily to sleep in the master bedroom. Both girls could barely keep their eyes open when they followed Ivy up the stairs. Their own beds were too littered with glass to lay in - Hermione feels a pang of guilt at the thought.

"Look, Hermione," Robert tells her, and she does. The A.M.R.S. line the streets. They wave their wands in unison and a loud scraping sound follows, then a tinkering - like glass breaking, but not quite. The shards lift up off the ground and find their mates. Windows piece themselves back together in midair, hurtle towards the frames they belong to. A thick wall of glass rebuilds itself inches from their faces. Robert inhales sharply, steps back in awe.

Panic overwhelms the crowd. The neighbors in the street gasp, shout. They cry witchcraft, devilry. Some even run.

"They're handling this very poorly," Hermione berates, barely noticing the window that just righted itself a few centimeters from her nose. She chalks it up to the squad's training - but when do they ever have an accidental magic case of this size? They're used to changing hair color and deflating aunts.

Neighbors run back to their houses, slam their doors - as if that plank of wood will keep the devils out.

Popping sounds echo throughout the street and the strangers disappear into thin air.

"Where've they gone? They can't just _leave_ ," Robert says, aghast.

"They haven't," she tells him. "They're in the houses."

On cue, there are distant screams and glowing lights through windows. One by one, each house falls calm.

"What d'you reckon they're doing?" her father asks.

 _Obliviation_ , she thinks. But that's a word she shouldn't know. "They're modifying their memories."

"What?" he asks, confusedly.

She moves from the window, sits back down on the sofa, weary.

"They're making them forget."

It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

* * *

There's a knock on the door.

"Hello, Mr. Evans," a female voice says from the entryway. "I'm a doctor from St. Mungo's Hospital. I'm here to see your daughter, Hermione, to make sure she's alright."

"St. Mungo's, you say?"

"Yes, sir. It's a hospital for wizards and witches."

Robert sighs, shuts the door. Footsteps follow. "She's just through here."

Her father looks worn down. It had been hard for Hermione to adjust to a magic world in the beginning, even with constant exposure, but there is so much unknown to Muggle parents. She never stopped to think about how alienating it must feel to have a magical child but have no resources to research the magical world.

"Hello, Hermione," greets a witch in lime green robes. Her hair is a dark, curly brown, pinned up in a bun.

"Hello," she responds, staring up at the medi-witch. Her eyes are blue; kind. There is something so familiar about them.

"Don't get up," she instructs when Hermione makes to stand. "You just relax." There's a black bag in her hand that she props up on the table, reaches down into it until she's shoulder-deep. "I'm a doctor," she says again. "Well, a Healer, as they call it in our world." _Our world_. Robert raises a brow at that. But the witch doesn't understand. Purebloods never do. "You can call me Healer Pomfrey."

Hermione stares up in shock. "What's your first name?"

"Poppy," the Healer answers with a smile. "I believe you and I are both named after flowers."

"My sisters are too," Hermione tells her, trying to keep the woman speaking. It's nice to hear her voice again. There are no lines on her face, no grey in her hair. She's younger now, just like Hermione.

"The best tend to be," Poppy Pomfrey says with a wink, and then she's off to work. Hermione sits still as the Healer checks her vitals with various pokes and prods of the shining silver instrument she pulled out of her bag.

"Hermione," she says, checking her pulse point. Her eyes are peering down at her, not unkind. "Can you tell me what happened tonight?"

"I…" she begins, trying to figure it out herself. "I don't know. I had a bad dream."

"Does this type of thing often happen when you have bad dreams?"

She's about to say 'no' when her father interjects. "Never like this."

It surprises her.

"Does she often do magic in her sleep?" Poppy asks.

"Yes," says Robert, "but it's minor. You know, vases flying. She floats over her bed. Sometimes we get knocked back when we try to wake her up. That sort of thing. I'm sure you see it all the time."

Either Madam Pomfrey's face isn't as unreadable as it used to be or Hermione is more perceptive now, but she can see it clearly. No, she doesn't see this sort of thing all the time.

"What about while you're awake, Hermione? Does this happen?"

She thinks of light bulbs bursting overhead, Lily crying. "Sometimes."

Poppy places her hand on Hermione's shoulder, squeezes it gently, comfortingly.

"I apologize, Mr. Evans," the former (future?) matron says in a sympathetic way, looking to Hermione's father. "But it's my professional opinion that your daughter be brought to St. Mungo's for further evaluation."

* * *

The children's ward is dim and quiet during this late hour.

Robert sits in a squishy beige armchair beside her bed. He's hugging a bucket to his chest, his face pointed downward into it.

"That was bloody horrible," he says, and his voice echoes from within the pail. "Why would they subject themselves to that?"

"I think they get used to it after a while," Hermione lends, patting him on the knee. He has had his first experience with Apparition and it hasn't sat well with his stomach. It never does, in the beginning. "Want another anti-nausea mint?"

"Yes," he says, miserably, lifting his head. There's a red ring around his face, an impression from the rim of the bucket. She tries to hide her smile as he plucks away the silver candy from between her fingers.

"Thanks, Dad," she says, softly.

"For what?"

"For not getting mad at me."

"Why the hell would I be mad at you?"

"For all this," she motions around them. "For the trouble I'm causing all of you."

"Darling," he says, as seriously as he can with a red ring around his face. "You are no trouble at all. You're my daughter and you're perfect just the way you are."

Something settles deep within her chest at that. Something warm. Something safe.

"Besides," he says with a wink, "my life would be very boring if I didn't have two witches for daughters. Fear nothing in life but dullness and banality, Hermione."

At that, he shoves his head back in the bucket and retches.

It almost drowns out the sounds of her laughter.

* * *

The pale blue privacy curtain is pulled aside as her father recovers. Poppy Pomfrey is back, and beside her is a tall, regal-looking wizard in deep purple robes. She can tell from the colour of the fabric that he's the Healer in charge of this ward.

"Good evening, Mr. Evans," says the man. "I'm the overseeing Healer here. I'll be your daughter's Primary Care Healer henceforth."

Robert blinks, surprised. "Does the Chief Physician normally deal with accidental magic cases directly?"

Hermione feels a swell of pride when she hears it. Her father is learning quickly, already asking the right questions.

"This case is special," the man replies, looking as impressed as Hermione feels.

A squeaking sound echoes across the floor - a chair wheels up behind the Healer of it's own accord and he sits, folds his hands over his abdomen. He's very good-looking, she notices. A strong jaw and perfect nose - like an aged Stubby Boardman, she thinks - his hair grey with a patch of off-centred black. "Hello, Hermione," he greets with a charming smile. "I'm here to help you." His eyes are a startling shade of silver-blue. Her stomach jolts - she doesn't know why. She's sure she has seen those eyes before. In a dream? A memory?

"My name," he says, "is Alphard Black."


	6. here or there

**A/N:** I missed you guys.

Unbeta'd. Forgive any mistakes.

Quote from Precious Things by Tori Amos.

Enjoy.

* * *

fair fortune

  


by

  


sweetasylums

* * *

"These precious things,

  


let them break their hold on me."

* * *

Whispers rouse her.

"Has a doctor been in to see her?" It's her mother's voice.

"Yes," says her father. "He came by just now when you were in the loo. Said she'll have to stay a few days for observation."

"And?"

"And he didn't stay long. He said to call a nurse when she wakes, and the nurse will fetch him."

"Muriel said she has a dinner to go to tonight. Do you want to pick up the girls, take them home?"

"No, you go. Get some rest. I'll sit here with Hermione."

"Robert," her mother says, aghast, "you need to sleep."

"I'm not leaving her."

Neither notice when she opens her eyes. Sunlight is painted across her parents' faces. They're sat in wooden chairs beside her bed, worry etched on their faces, exhaustion weighing down their shoulders. Guilt settles heavily in her chest.

"Hey," she says. Her voice sounds strained even to her own ears.

"Hello, love," her father says, happily, and rests his hand on top of hers. The weight of it is comforting.

"How are the girls?" she asks them.

"They're doing just fine. I dropped them off at your Aunt's," her mother says. "Don't fret, Hermione. There's nothing to worry about." Her smile is wide. Too wide. Sad, almost.

"Glad to hear it," Hermione smiles back, just as wide; plays along with the ruse. Her mother is desperate to be reassuring. Hermione lets her, and hopes she finds some comfort in it. "You look tired, Mum."

"Your mum has been here since early this morning," says her father.

"This morning? What time is it now?"

"Half past four," Robert tells her, points to a clock on a far wall. The room is huge, open; lined with empty beds. Marble floors sparkle in the dying light.

"I can't believe I slept that long."

"You needed it." Ivy's attention keeps wandering to the clock.

"Go on, Mum," Hermione tells her. "I know you've got to pick up Lily and Tuney. I'll be okay."

Something about the statement makes Ivy's eyes well with tears. Her fingers brush through Hermione's hair and she says, reassuringly, "I know you will."

* * *

Children come and go in this ward; most fit to leave almost as soon as they sit down. Minor things like cauldron burns and engorged limbs. They leave with smiles on their faces and a murloc lollipop clutched in their hands.

Healers check in on her now and then. The Head Healer himself stops at the foot of her bed, chats with her father.

"We're monitoring her sleep tonight," he says, and turns to her. "That alright with you, Hermione?"

"Yes," she agrees, and she likes this man, this rebel Black.

"I'm staying, too," her father tells him.

"Of course," Healer Black responds with a bow, and he disappears behind the curtain again.

"Did he… did he just bow?" her father mumbles, eyes darting towards her.

She chokes back a laugh.

"Wizards are so bizarre."

* * *

Night has fallen and lamps are lit, lining the walls, illuminating the room with dull and dim light. A door at the far end of the room is closed, cloaked in shadow. It's tall and wide, made of dark, heavy wood. She has not seen anyone enter or exit that door in the fifteen hours she has been here.

The curtain makes a noxious noise as it's drawn back, draws their attention to it.

The Head Healer is back.

"How are you, Hermione?" he asks, checking her pulse, her temperature.

"Fine," she says. "What's through there?" she asks, nodding towards the door.

"Ah. That's the closed ward." Alphard doesn't elaborate. He doesn't have to. The closed ward. The chronic cases.

The kids that can't leave.

A frazzled-looking Healer appears holding a steaming mug filled with a pale liquid.

"This is a potion to help your daughter fall asleep," says Healer Black, taking the mug, dismissing the woman. Her father listens intently. "It will lull her to sleep, but will not hinder her dreams. She will be monitored throughout the evening, and any disturbances will be contained. We need to know what we're dealing with." Her father nods, and Alphard hands her the mug. It feels warm against her palms. "Did you catch all that, Hermione?"

"Yes," she says as she grips the cup. Her heart flutters nervously. "Is that all? You're just monitoring and containing? Not… interfering in any way?" Not seeing what she sees.

"Just watching," he tells her, truthfully, but he looks at her in a peculiar way.

"And who… who will be monitoring me?"

The Head Healer sits down beside her bed and crosses his legs, relaxed. "Why, I will, of course."

She glances down at the drink in her hands. The liquid is a swirling lavender, the scent soothes her. It tastes like chai, or warm like cinnamon, or smooth like chocolate. She cannot decide as she sips it. Warmth radiates right down to her fingertips and toes and her eyes begin to droop.

The mug is taken from her, she realizes she had almost spilled it.

"This stuff works fast," she says, or tries to say. The words sound slurred and far away.

Silver-grey eyes are warm as they look down at her. They're so vivid she can see the Christmas baubles glittering behind him, hear the house roaring with laughter, with song, and the dull sound of Mrs. Black shrieking from somewhere upstairs. She can't tell if her eyes are open or shut anymore, if she's here or there. But they've already stayed up well past their bedtime and she can hear Mrs. Weasley bustling through the kitchen door, checking to make sure they've all departed to their respective rooms.

"Goodnight, Hermione."

"Goodnight, Sirius."

* * *

The corridor is empty; long and dark. There's a sound somewhere in the distance, hissing, like steam escaping from a pipe. She can't tell if it's in front of her or behind her but she knows the creature's somewhere near, knows that one wrong glance now means death.

Penelope Clearwater is beside her, shaking.

"Don't look away from the mirror," Hermione whispers, in her bossiest of voices. She's terrified of course, and she's most likely going to die right here but there's a shred of parchment in her hands and she's clutching it like it'll save the world - and really, it just might. Even if she dies, they'll find it - she hopes - she hopes they'll find it if she dies. When she dies.

Harry will. Harry will find it.

They reach a corner and she holds the mirror out in front of them, tries to see if it's there, waiting. Penelope exhales so hard that the mirror fogs and Hermione feels panic set in - she rubs the glass with the sleeve of her robe and - oh.

Red eyes, glowing in the darkness, staring back at her in the mirror.

She tries to scream, and maybe she succeeds, but her limbs stiffen and the world goes dark.

* * *

"Easy, easy now," a soft voice murmurs.

Her eyes are bleary, but Sirius is standing over her, a dropper in hand that's dripping red liquid onto her lips and tongue. It's tastes spicy, zips through her bloodstream like adrenaline.

Wide awake now, she feels herself drop down a foot; her back hits the bed.

It's not Sirius above her, she realizes. It's Alphard Black. His glasses are crooked and the curtain is on the floor around them in pieces, tattered and frayed. The mug beside her bed is shattered and there is lavender liquid coating her father - he is passed out, slumped over a chair.

"Oh god, did I hurt him?" Hermione panics, trying to sit up, but Alphard puts a hand on her shoulder and keeps her down.

"No, it's just the potion. He'll be fine."

Her eyes fill with tears - solemn, angry, she's not sure - and she looks up the Head Healer. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Shh, quiet now. Drink this," he says, pulling a vial from his pocket. He pops the cork and she knows what it is. "Go on now, Hermione. Everything will be better in the morning."

Sleep is dreamless after that.

* * *

"Post-Traumatic Magical Instability."

The office is dead silent. Noise from the hospital does not penetrate these doors. The huge oak desk Alphard sits behind is shiny and sleek. Sunlight streams in from all around them, silver instruments on display gleam from their shelves. Hermione is reminded of Dumbledore's office. She stares out the window, looks to the clouds, tries to figure out how she's going to talk her way out of this one.

"Post-Traumatic Magical Instability," her mother repeats, looking to Robert.

Her father stares ahead. "Could you explain?"

"This is a rare condition, most commonly seen in children. In fact, I've never heard of a case that involved an adult. Traumatic events sometimes render a child's magic unstable. It makes them unwittingly dangerous, extreme emotions trigger the magical outbursts. Hermione's manifests with her nightmares. I suspect she dreams of the trauma often."

"Trauma?" her father asks. "What trauma?"

Hermione presses her fingernails into her palms, keeps her face impassive.

Alphard Black leans forward, elbows on his desk, fingertips together. There is something dangerous in his eyes now, something sharp, cutting. It looks like the ghost of a man she knew once, in another life. "That's precisely what I'm wondering, Mr. Evans."

"Are you suggesting that we hurt our daughter?"

"I'm suggesting that your daughter remain here, under my care, until we get to the source of this disorder."

"Out of the question," her father yells.

"Your other daughters will be taken as well, until it is decided that you are safe and stable guardians."

"ARE YOU -" her father roars.

"Stop," Hermione interjects. The sound cuts him off.

Both men fall silent. Three sets of eyes stare back at her.

"It isn't what you think."

The wizard stays quiet, but suspicion is painted across his face. He's trying to keep her safe, to protect her. And she loves him for it, this stranger. He thinks her an innocent girl. A victim, defenceless and frail. He doesn't know the things she has done, the things she has seen.

"You don't believe me," she tells him, resolutely, "but you will."

"You will."


	7. like fire

 

* * *

**a/n:** As promised. Quote at the beginning by Anne Rice.

* * *

Wherever you are right now, I'm sending you love.

* * *

Enjoy.

* * *

**fair fortune**

  


by

  


sweetasylums

* * *

"Keep your secrets, keep your silence.

  


It is a better gift than the truth."

* * *

A hush descends.

It feels like an eternity but it only lasts a breath.

"Cruc —"

"NO!" Hermione cries and her voice cracks. "No — Harry — Harry, we have to tell her!"

Ron's struggling, panicking, trying to yell at her through his gag as the High Inquisitor spiels her triumph at Hermione's weakness. He chokes her name, muffled, begs her not to.

"I'm — I'm sorry everyone," she apologizes to him, to all of them. "But — I can't stand it."

The toad-faced woman urges her on and she sees Harry in her peripheral - horrified, confused - but then they lock eyes.

There are no tears with her sobs, no fear behind her quaking.

"Well," she says, shameful and doe-eyed, "well, he was trying to speak to Professor Dumbledore."

A still befalls her friends.

In that moment, they begin to realize what she's capable of.

* * *

"What won't I believe, Hermione?" the Head Healer's voice is gentle, soothing. "Don't be afraid. I'll keep you safe."

He says that last part with conviction; a strength in his tone that echoes the voice of someone long-forgotten. That shell of a man she knew, once. That walking corpse with the handsome face; that broken mind with the best intentions.

His uncle is different — whole. She believes him all the same.

Robert and Ivy watch on; worried for what she'll say. Their emotions are etched on their faces like scrawls from Umbridge's quill.

It's Alphard she looks to. Their eyes meet, and how she longs to confess, to share the weight of this burden. What a relief it would be, to be free.

But this is her cross to bear.

"I see things," she says.

There is a slight knit of his brows. "Do you see people? Or monsters?"

"The monsters I've seen are always people."

Her parents turn to face the Head Healer for answers, for help, but he does not glance their way, doesn't offer them the comfort they seek. His focus remains solely on her — watches her for signs of lies, of truth. But the weariness in her voice is real and her jaded answers are not a farce. There is candor in this charade.

"You see these things when you're dreaming? What about when you're awake?"

"Sometimes I dream while I'm awake."

Healer Black is quiet, then. Psychiatrists do the same — forcing out details by saying nothing at all. People feel compelled to fill the silence.

"Sometimes the things I dream end up happening," she casts out; baits.

His eyes widen.

That's when she knows he's hooked.

* * *

"What was she like," the Head Healer asks, "as an infant?"

"The same," Ivy says after a thoughtful pause. "Her sleep has always been fitful. Since the day she was born."

"What about in utero? Were there any complications or abnormalities?"

"Pain — once," Ivy tells him, far away as she recalls. "Burning. Like fire. And then it was gone."

"What do you think is happening to our daughter?" Robert questions, glancing from Hermione to the man across from him. Robert is keen, knows there's something Alphard's holding back. "What is causing this — this syndrome? And what does she mean, she sees things? Is that common?"

"I cannot answer that yet. It's still unclear, Mr. Evans," Healer Black responds diplomatically. He ignores the last two questions completely. "I'm sorry to inform you that Hermione must stay here at St. Mungo's for further observation and evaluation."

"No!" Ivy snaps. "She's coming home. You can't take our daughters from us!"

"Your other daughters will stay with you until further notice — I recant my former recommendation. Hermione, however," he says, solemnly, "Hermione must stay."

Robert's fists are clenched as he fights to stay calm. "You can't just take her. We're her parents. We have _rights_. We'll hire a solicitor, we'll fight this, we'll—"

"Our government," Alphard interjects, "prioritizes the needs of magical children over the wishes of their non-magical guardians. And this is for Hermione's well being, as well as the safety of your family." Her father is about to speak when the the hammer falls. "What will you tell your solicitor? _Wizards_ have your daughter?"

It stuns Robert and Ivy into silence. Tension is thick and the air is heavy with the weight of the Head Healer's words. The bomb has been dropped; the one every Muggle parent has to learn eventually: they are inconsequential in the eyes of the Ministry of Magic.

"How can this be?" her mother asks, dejectedly. "This is discrimination."

Alphard does not attempt to deny it. Her parents' disquiet lingers.

"Why, then?" her father probes, disconsolately. "Why is it so 'unsafe' for her to come home?"

"Mr. Evans, Mrs. Evans," the man across the desk addresses the pair. "This syndrome is rare, but it is dangerous. People have _died_. There was once a case of a wizarding family who refused to commit their daughter for fear of shame from other families. That little girl had a magical outburst so large it created an explosion that collapsed her house and killed her mother."

A chill creeps up her spine. Hermione knows who that little girl is — she has seen her sway dreamily throughout her portrait at The Hog's Head. The same little girl who haunts the memory of the wizards who loved her.

Ivy shares a look with Robert. They've caught glimpses of such powerful instability before, and that _thing_ Hermione knows has been on their minds — that what if, _what if it's very bad next time_ — startles them both with a resurgence. Their daughter would not willingly hurt them — no, not _willingly_.

"How long is the recovery process?" Ivy inquires, shoulders back and chin high, though tears still linger in her eyes. She is strong - _like Lily was_ , Hermione thinks. _Like Lily will be_.

"The recovery process," Alphard repeats, despondent. Worry winds tight in her chest as the man, so like Sirius, frowns. Over to her side, her father reaches over, holds Hermione's hand, squeezes it reassuringly. The knife is thrust deeper. "There are no known cases of recovery."

There's a ringing in her ears; the other three are speaking but she cannot hear them any longer. How long she sits there, she cannot say.

"I think it's best," Hermione agrees, finally, and they all quiet, "if I stay."

Ivy looks torn, Robert irresolute.

"I'll find a way to control it." Alphard considers her in an endeared way, admires her bravery — but he doesn't understand the credence in her words. "If anyone can do it, _I_ can."

They reluctantly agree, but it isn't them she's reminding.

 _We will fight_ , she told Harry, once. _We're the only ones who can end it._

But she's on her own now; bereft. There is no more _we_ to speak of. She stands alone now, the only one who can end it.

_So I will fight._

_I will fight._

* * *

The closed ward is calmer than she imagined.

There are only two other children here, she's told, but Hermione has yet to see them. She has a room to herself - safety precautions. The healers are kind, all but one, but Healer Carrow is never assigned to her. Hermione thinks Alphard Black has something to do with this.

The adult patients are on another floor of the ward — the fourth, she recalls. The bed where Arthur Weasley lay for months, near where Neville's mother — vacant, with her nightgown draped over skeletal limbs — handed him a Drooble's wrapper.

She remembers because she can't forget.

"Tell me about the things you see, Hermione. The things that come true sometimes."

They've done this every day for the last fortnight - sat in his office after her reading lessons, after lunch. They have _a dialogue_. That's what he calls it. _Like friends_ , he tells her.

Questions, that's all this dialogue is. A constant stream of them, wrapped in pretty bows. He's trying to dissect, to understand. She cannot fault him for it.

Sunlight is painted across his desk. The Daily Prophet is folded in half beside him, next to a half-drunk cup of tea. She stares at the headline, sees two familiar faces bobbing up and down, yelling heatedly at one another as light bulbs flash around them.

Every time they meet, all roads lead to this. He veils it well in his charming way, distracts her with laughter. And she lets him think he loosens her tongue; hides the calculation from her voice.

"What do you want to know?"

"Can you tell me anything about me?" he asks, lightly. "Tell me something that nobody else would know."

"It doesn't work like that."

"Then tell me," he requests, interested — she detects a hint of eagerness beneath his level tone. "How does it work?"

"Sometimes I know things," she says, innocent and unsure, "sometimes I don't."

Alphard's eyes fall to her hands as she reaches across the desk and drags the Prophet towards her. The headline is bold and large. _MUGGLE RIGHTS SET FLINT IN FLAMES!_

"Do you know who that is?" he asks, kindly.

The question hangs unanswered.

"That's Philip Flint," he informs her, pointing to one man, "and that's Joseph Flume," he motions to the other. "They are the candidates for our election. In one week's time, one of these men will be our next Minister for Magic."

A smile pulls at the corners of her mouth.

Curiosity piqued, Alphard cocks his head in a doggish way.

This is it — the moment they've both been waiting for.

"Neither of those men are the next Minister for Magic," she tells him, slowly; holds his gaze. "Flume won't wrangle in the pureblood vote and Flint will have a scandal with a Muggle woman. Byron Ross will replace him."

She folds the paper, slides it back towards him.

"He'll be the next Minister for Magic."

* * *

Seer.

_Seer._

That's what he tells her parents when Minister Ross is appointed.


End file.
